


A Curious Magic

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Anal Sex, Falling In Love, Fandom Trumps Hate 2020, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, Witch Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: Overall, Stiles is very well-known in the supernatural community. It’d be hard not to be, not with how his reputation has grown like wildfire. He knows and is on good terms with nearly all the fae that reside in the preserve, the asrai that live deep in the lake, the Ito pack, the vampire couple that lives over in Beacon Valley (they buy an ethically-sourced food supply from Stiles), as well as almost every other supernatural entity in the area. But Talia Hale doesn’t like him, and a werewolf pack tends to do what their alpha tells them to.So it’s a definite surprise when the wards at the edge of his property trip, the tingling down his spine telling him it’s a werewolf, the lack of burning sensation letting him know there’s no hostile intent. Stiles, in his office in the second floor turret, sets down the amulet he’s packing up for Marin and moves to the large window overlooking the front of his property. He’s expecting to see an Ito packmember, even though they nearly always call in advance, and is surprised to see a man that he recognizes as Talia’s brother, Peter.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 235
Kudos: 2719
Collections: The Steter Network





	A Curious Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mysenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Mysenia who bid on me for the 2020 Fandom Trumps Hate Auction. I'd wanted to finish this sooner, but 2020 is a hellscape. I hope you like this and thank you again!

The people of Beacon Hills know Stiles Stilinski is a bit...odd. Whenever he’s seen in town shopping, he’s wearing something bizarre, like a long black coat that brushes the ground as he walks, or a bright yellow t-shirt with a tiny chicken flipping the bird, or an odd necklace that has a symbol that makes Minister Carson clutch her purse tighter and hiss _witchcraft_ as he walks by. He has tattoos on his arms in strange languages, plenty of silver piercings in his ears, and always seems to know just a little bit too much about whoever he’s talking to.

His house, an old Victorian right on the edge of the preserve is painted in deep purples and blues, though in some places it’s hard to tell, thanks to the paint being so cracked and faded, and the west side so covered in ivy. The greenhouse attached to the back of the house is filled with bright flowers, strange trees, and odd plants. The yard is an overgrown mess of wildflowers and tall grass with a winding pavestone path that passes under two iron arches, both covered in twisting vines and purple flowers that always seem to be in bloom. 

Once in a while some teenagers will have the bright idea to sneak onto his property and try something foolish, like toilet papering his house or stealing a flower from his greenhouse. Occasions like that are rare though, both because his father is a very competent sheriff, as well as the fact that the last boys who went poking around his land came home screaming and covered in dirt and bloody scratches, flat out refusing to tell anyone what happened.

The thing is...plenty of Beacon Hills’ residents come out to Stiles’ spooky old Victorian when they have problems that can’t be solved by...traditional means. The desk sergeant of the Sheriff’s Station needed his help with a poltergeist. A kindergarten teacher came for a salve to help open her asthmatic son’s lungs. More than one of Minister Carson’s parishioners have made their way out past the city limits to the home their minister has called ‘that devil house’ for help only Stiles can provide. 

They pay in cash, or favors, or goods, in a bizarre bartering system Stiles has set up. He accepts moonshine from the community college chemistry professor, which he sometimes trades, in addition to various amulets or protective materials, to a very reclusive, wizened siren that lives on the coast, in exchange for her shed hair and scales. A deputy pays with a mix of cash and strawberry pie. Deaton, the local druid, pays in cash, information, and supernatural goods and ingredients, because Stiles doesn’t like the fucker. And because he knows only Stiles can do what he needs, he pays. They all do.

Overall, Stiles is very well-known in the supernatural community. It’d be hard not to be, not with how his reputation has grown like wildfire. He knows and is on good terms with nearly all the fae that reside in the preserve, the asrai that live deep in the lake, the Ito pack, the vampire couple that lives over in Beacon Valley (they buy an ethically-sourced food supply from Stiles), as well as almost every other supernatural entity in the area. So it’s always been a bit strange to him that the Hale pack doesn’t like him.

He supposes that isn’t totally fair. Talia Hale doesn’t like him, and a werewolf pack tends to do what their alpha tells them to. In Stiles’ humble opinion, Talia likes to believe that the old world order of werewolves policing the supernatural in their territory is law and she should be everyone’s alpha. Stiles likes to believe that Talia can fuck right off, and he’s powerful enough that she can’t try to force him to comply with her rules. So, Talia isn’t a fan of the witch that lives on the edge of the preserve. But she’s still told her children that if they’re in danger, to run to him if he’s close.

So it’s a definite surprise when the wards at the edge of his property trip, the tingling down his spine telling him it’s a werewolf, the lack of burning sensation letting him know there’s no hostile intent. Stiles, in his office in the second floor turret, sets down the amulet he’s packing up for Marin and moves to the large window overlooking the front of his property. He’s expecting to see an Ito packmember, even though they nearly always call in advance, and is surprised to see a man that he recognizes as Talia’s brother, Peter.

Peter’s standing in front of the wrought iron gate that separates his yard from the driveway, looking at it suspiciously. It makes Stiles hold him a bit higher in esteem, but since he’s not one of the fae, he has nothing to worry about. That particular gate only deals with the specific elves that once in a while get the idea to bring him home with them to show their friends. Still, Peter seems to brace himself before stepping through the gate before continuing up the path to Stiles’ front door.

He’s interesting to watch, Stiles decides as Peter moves slowly up the weaving pathway, the tall grasses and wildflowers brushing against his jeans as he walks. He holds himself alert, like he’s waiting for something to happen, like he knows something strong is here and he should be ready. It makes Stiles’ respect for him grow. Peter carefully keeps to the pavestones, walking as deliberately and carefully as a cat rather than a full-grown man. 

What a peculiar creature, Stiles thinks. Not many that come to his house, not even all the ones who know about the supernatural, are so careful. But Peter moves like he knows he’s outgunned, like he knows Stiles’ magic is swirling around this place, so interwoven in the trees and house and air itself that he’s all but embedded here. The vines and flowers clinging to the arches move with Peter as he walks through them, letting him pass and tasting his magical scent as he goes. His nose twitches just so, like it’s hard for him not to yank away from them. Fascinating.

He watches as Peter starts on the steps to his porch, eyes trained on them like he’s trying to memorize them, trying to figure them out, before Stiles realizes that he actually has to be downstairs to open the door. _Shit_ , Stiles thinks, jogging out of the room and down the stairs. _Oops_.

Stiles still makes it to the front door before Peter, his magic allowing him to slip through just a few shortcuts in reality, moving him through space in quick jolts until he’s standing by the front door, opening it just after Peter Hale knocks. To his credit, Peter doesn’t let on he’s startled, which raises Stiles’ respect for him again.

“Peter Hale,” Stiles says, grinning at how that makes Peter’s eye twitch a bit, like everyone else’s does when Stiles knows a bit more about them than he should. It’s mostly logic, he’s observant and was raised by a good cop, he puts things together easily, but he’s happy to let people think it’s another thing about him that’s spooky. “I don’t get many Hale pack members out this way.”

“My sister encourages us to keep our distance. Out of respect for your space,” Peter says, a bit of a sarcastic twist of his lips telling Stiles exactly what he thinks of the excuse his sister gives. 

“And yet you’re here anyway,” Stiles says, leaning casually against the doorframe. He’s of course going to let him in, but it’s fun to watch the apex predator be uncomfortable. 

“I’m not always the best at listening to my alpha’s orders,” Peter says, and the smirk is undeniable now.

“I like it,” Stiles says. “So, what can I do for you, Peter Hale?”

“My niece is having strange dreams, and normally I’d put it down to an overactive imagination, but she had similar dreams about the arson attempt right before it happened,” Peter says. Stiles winces. Everyone in the supernatural community heard about the Argents’ attempt to burn the Hales alive, thwarted barely by Peter and his younger sister Mara. “I just want to be sure - “

“Be sure they aren’t some kind of prophetic dreams,” Stiles finishes for Peter. 

“Yes,” Peter says. He’s trying very carefully to take in what he can of the porch and the hall behind Stiles while being as subtle as possible. He glances at the windchimes when the wind picks up, making delicate tinkling sounds. He stares at the little swirls hanging from each chime, like he’s trying to figure them out. Stiles snorts.

“They’re just windchimes, dude,” Stiles says with a shrug. “They’re just fun. Come in.” Stiles steps back, giving Peter room. Peter glances up at the etching carved above the door and looks at Stiles with a raised eyebrow. Stiles just grins. Peter sighs and steps through, though he seems much less reluctant than he did at the front gate.

Stiles takes him to the living room right off the foyer, gesturing for him to sit wherever he wants. He loves the feel of this room. He has over-the-top wingback chairs upholstered in bright pink, an ornate Victorian chaise in a deep blue, and a Victorian sofa with intricately carved woodwork and black upholstery. The room is filled with natural light, bolstered by glowing orbs bobbing near the ceiling. He also has his laptop, a minifridge for energy drinks and certain potion ingredients, and a large flatscreen TV over the ornate fireplace. Stiles loves watching people’s confused reactions when they look around. He lives to be contrary.

Peter’s no different, eyebrows raising higher and higher as he looks around. His eyes linger on one of the bright orbs, watching it bump into a potted velvet leaf philodendron until the plant perks up, its leaves looking a bit brighter. He turns to look at Stiles, who’s picking up his laptop, and gives him a flat look. 

Stiles just grins at him. “I like to keep it weird.” He sits down in one of the wingback chairs, setting his laptop on the coffee table in front of him. He hums, pulling up his copies of the notes a few psychics have traded to him in exchange for various protective enchantments or items. Stiles reaches out, a tome on top of the grand piano in the corner (it’s a glorified plant stand, he doesn’t play) flies into his open hand, the cover nearly brushing Peter’s nose as it rushes by.

“I feel like this is the scene in Thor: Ragnarok where Dr. Strange is enjoying fucking with Thor,” Peter says, taking a seat at the end of the couch closest to Stiles’ chair. Stiles looks up, grin stretching wide.

“You know, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Stiles says. “I love it.” Peter looks torn but ends up huffing out a small laugh. Stiles scrolls through the information from his psychic friends, highlighting a few things to go back to later. “What did Alan Deaton say?” Stiles asks, glancing up. Peter’s lip curls into a sneer.

“Alan Deaton is about as useful as Donald Trump’s makeup artist,” Peter says. “Cora doesn’t want to go to him, and I’m not inclined to make her.”

“Hmm,” Stiles hums. “So I’m assuming Talia doesn’t know you’re doing this on behalf of her daughter?”

“Not remotely. Is that a problem?” Peter asks.

“Not remotely,” Stiles says, grinning. 

“You’re awfully excited about the prospect of tugging on an alpha werewolf’s tail, so to speak,” Peter says.

“I mean, would you rather I not help you?” Stiles asks.

“Not at all,” Peter says. “I just enjoy the audacity.”

“You’re gonna love me then,” Stiles says, opening up a new Google Doc. “All right, how old is your niece?”

“She’s 24,” Peter says.

“Werewolf?” Stiles asks.

“Yes. Does that matter?”

Stiles shrugs. “It might. Magic is weird sometimes,” Stiles says. “Okay, walk me through her dream.”

Peter pulls out a folded up piece of paper from his jeans pocket, and Stiles is pleased he was smart enough to record what Cora said instead of going by memory. 

“She starts off wandering down a hall at the Hale house,” Peter says, glancing down at the paper in his hands. “At the end of the hall there’s a door to the linen closet, but when she opens it, it opens to the middle of the preserve. She walks through and is surrounded by trees but they’re all black like they’ve been burned, and are covered in thousands of bugs.”

“Does she feel fear in the dream?” Stiles asks.

“Dread. She says she feels dread. Like she knows something is about to happen,” Peter says. “Then there’s a faint hum that gets louder and louder until she’s covering her ears with her hands, but it doesn’t help. She says it feels like her whole body is being shaken by the hum.”

“And then?” Stiles asks. “Does it build up to anything or does she wake up?”

“She wakes up,” Peter says.

“Is it a kind of altered state? Like, does it feel different from her dreams in general?” Stiles asks.

“She doesn’t dream often, so she isn’t sure,” Peter says. “Though when she does dream, it’s rarely the same dream twice.”

“And how many times has she had this one?”

“Four times over the last six months,” Peter says.

Stiles hums, making note of that in his doc. “Okay,” Stiles says. “And was her dream around the time of the fire similar?”

“In her dreams she was walking through the Hale house and it was nearly burned out completely, but she couldn’t find her way out,” Peter says. “She didn’t have the sound or the dread, mostly just confusion.”

“All right,” Stiles says. “Give me a minute.” He pulls up the notes from the psychics and twists his fingers in the air, making the book from the piano float in front of him above his laptop’s screen, pages flipping until they get to the page he’s looking for.

It’s more like fifteen minutes that Stiles takes to go through all his notes, his book, and a few forums he’s on. At the five minute mark, Peter stands, meandering around the room like he can’t help but look. Stiles doesn’t mind; there’s nothing in here that Stiles can’t replace or that Peter could hurt that wouldn’t hurt him back. He stands next to the piano, staring above at where the floating balls of light are bumping into each other like a glowing Newton cradle. 

Stiles doesn’t really pay attention, though he has a vague awareness of where Peter is as he walks around. He snorts under his breath when Peter reaches out to touch a vintage picture frame only to get a shock, jumping back with a muttered curse. He’s fine, so Stiles just keeps reading. In Peter’s defense, it’s a pretty cool frame.

Peter wanders around the room for a while longer, apparently fascinated, before settling back on the couch. He doesn’t startle when Callista, Stiles’ cat, jumps up next to him, sitting on the couch cushion beside him and just staring with unblinking, bright green eyes. Peter stares right back, and Stiles is pretty sure he flashes his eyes blue, which just makes Callista yawn and start to lick at her paws. She only moves when Stiles closes the book and shuts his laptop, jumping from the couch to the back of his chair, her black tail brushing against Stiles’ cheek.

“I’m not gonna lie, prophetic dreams aren’t my area of expertise,” Stiles says, “but from what I do know and see, these don’t fall in the prophetic range. I don’t want to say what she’s dealing with is common, but dreams like this do happen. That being said, I’m going to reach out to a few friends and contacts just to double check, if that’s all right. I should hear back within the week.”

“That’s fine,” Peter says, standing when Stiles stands. Stiles walks him to the front door but Peter turns around abruptly in the foyer. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says with a shrug. “Call it a consultation.”

“Thank you,” Peter says, reaching out to shake his hand.

Stiles takes his hand, letting just a bit of magic snake between them, smirking when it makes Peter jerk. He doesn’t look afraid though, just intrigued, and isn’t that refreshing. “If you give me your number, I’ll call you when I hear back,” Stiles says.

Peter shakes his hand a bit, like trying to get off a spiderweb, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his business card. “Text me instead,” Peter says, handing it to Stiles. “Private calls can be difficult to manage if there are other werewolves around.”

“Mm, and we don’t need Talia to know you’re here, right,” Stiles says with a wink. 

“What Talia doesn’t know can’t hurt her,” Peter says, then grimaces. “Though it usually ends up hurting me.”

“Well, that’s what makes you a good left hand, right?” Stiles says.

Peter narrows his eyes a bit. “I can see why you freak out Minister Carson so much,” Peter says.

“Look, to be fair, scaring the hell out of Patricia Carson is the funniest fucking hobby you can have,” Stiles says. “I highly recommend it.”

Peter looks torn between confused and amused, which is a hilarious look on him, someone who Stiles is pretty sure is used to being on top of every situation he’s in. So Stiles just waves cheekily and Peter is whooshed backwards out the now-open front door. Stiles is just able to make out Peter’s stunned expression and call out, “I’ll let you know when I have something!” before the door slams shut. He loves doing that.

What he’d told Peter is true, he really doesn’t think Cora’s dreams are prophetic. Especially if she rarely dreams; he thinks it’s probably her being startled by average nightmares, and that the dreams before the fire were coincidental, but he also believes in not risking it. True prophetic dreams are rare and usually only plague exceptionally strong psychics or dreamwalkers, but they have been known to happen to others, so he’s happy to check anyway.

Gabriela, a Colombian psychic he met through a supernatural forum, gets back to him quickly, saying that it doesn’t sound like any of the prophetic dreams she and her sisters (also psychically gifted) have ever heard of. Yves, a psychic from France, takes a few more days to get back to him and also says he’d bet his savings account that they’re usual nightmares, probably caused by stress. Yves and Gabriela are two of the best Stiles has ever met and their advice is confirmation enough for him.

Nearly a week later, Stiles is pulling out the business card Peter left him, ( _Peter Hale, Attorney at Law_ , figures) and texting him like he’d asked.

_Hey Peter, it’s Stiles, your secret new witch friend. I heard back from my contacts and they agree that the dreams aren’t supernatural or prophetic in nature, just a recurring mundane nightmare. If you want to be doubly extra sure, I can recommend some extra protection wards you can ask Deaton to do if he hasn’t already. And I can do a tonic for dreamless sleep if Cora wants._

Stiles sets his phone down and goes back to what he was doing, researching the Rocky Mountain trolls for a fellow witch who’s having an issue in Colorado. He expects Peter Hale, Attorney at Law, to be much too busy to text back right away, but a few minutes later, his phone is buzzing against next to his laptop. 

_Thank you, I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear it. The tonic and ward suggestions would be wonderful. I’m not sure how I can convince Talia to use them, but I’ll come up with something. What do I owe you?_

Stiles doesn’t envy trying to convince Talia Hale that her emissary isn’t doing a good enough job (and Stiles knows Deaton, and the whole druid bullshit, and maybe picking an emissary who swears to keep the balance and interfere as little as possible isn’t the best choice) but hey, if Peter wants to, best of luck to him.

_$25 for a gallon, which should last a good long while. No cost for advice, though I’ll charge if I actually do the wards (which I’m not expecting since, ya know, Talia). I can have it ready by Friday._

Normally he’d charge more but he actually likes Peter. The people who respect him, don’t piss him off, and/or are funny tend to get better rates. 

Peter’s response is nearly instantaneous. _That’s perfect. I look forward to Friday._

Stiles...should not read into that. He knows he shouldn’t, the guy is trying to help out his niece, and yet here he is, hoping it’s because Peter wants to see him again. Ridiculous. He shakes himself out of it and goes back to his research. He needs to slam this out so he can start on Cora’s sleeping tonic. 

Despite his natural tendencies toward distraction, he’s able to send the information off to Cleo and get to Cora’s tonic. He’s a fan of doing potion work in the top of the turret, mostly because he enjoys the room and potions can take a long-ass time, but partly the aesthetic just tickles him pink. It’s a relatively simple tonic, but he does have to adjust for the supernatural element (werewolf), which necessitates a bit of fiddling. 

After about an hour, with everything chopped and ready, Stiles starts adding the ingredients slowly, snorting out a laugh every few minutes. It’s always funny to him to be a witch in a turret of a Victorian house, and making potions in their Monsters, Inc. crockpot. This specific tonic needs to be kept warm and untouched for two days, and Stiles is so okay with going against tradition if it means he can leave it in a crockpot for days instead of constantly checking to make sure the fire under a damn cauldron is still going. He’d have used his Star Wars crockpot since it’s bigger, but it’s currently running on high to finish the fertility potion for a naiad a few states away and he really doesn’t want to be on her shit list. No one makes a hard cider like Angele.

Cora’s tonic bubbles happily away until Thursday night when it turns a nice, clear turquoise. He carefully funnels it into a clean and empty milk jug. He’s all out of his fancy glass jars, but it’s probably easier to hide from Talia in a boring container. He sets it on his coffee table and scribbles out instructions before going to bed. Callista’s a curious cat, but she’s smart enough to know what she definitely shouldn’t get into, so he knows it’s safe.

Peter ends up showing up around noon the next day, when Stiles is up on a ladder pruning the wisteria that’s climbing up the outside of the greenhouse. Stiles feels it the second Peter’s on his property again, only he recognizes his magical signature now. It’s...almost warm, like a caressing velvet hand trailing down his spine. Stiles shivers on the ladder, holding onto the wisteria tightly. He clears his throat before saying, in a normal volume because he knows Peter will hear it, “Walk around the left side of the house. I’m by the greenhouse.”

Stiles doesn’t get down quite yet. There’s this one branch he can nearly reach that just needs to go. He bites his lip, concentrating as he levitates the ladder just an inch so he can snip the branch. He manages to lower the ladder back to the ground gracefully, only for him to nearly fall off with a jerk when he sees Peter standing at the base of the ladder. 

“Jesus!” Stiles says, throwing his pruning shears down at Peter’s feet, his other hand over his racing heart. “Sure, scare the witch to death before he even gives you what you want, that’s a great plan.”

“In fairness, you told me to come over here,” Peter says.

Stiles glares, throwing his gloves down too before climbing down the ladder, muttering about quiet werewolves under his breath. When he’s back on solid ground, he sees Peter looking at the greenhouse, at how the thick, winding wisteria branches climb up the side of the building, the purple and pink blooms hanging beneath, full and bright.

“I didn’t think you were supposed to prune wisteria this time of year,” Peter says.

Stiles shrugs, looking up at the tree. “This isn’t a normal wisteria,” he says, waving his fingers for emphasis. “It kinda just...blooms all year? So I have to prune it when I can, even when it’s the wrong season.”

Peter stares for a moment, before snorting, amused. Stiles kind of likes the awe, he’s not gonna lie, but he likes how quickly Peter gets over his own startlement this time. He likes seeing more of his personality. 

“So I’m guessing this,” Peter says, wiggling his fingers like Stiles had, though a bit mockingly, “is why it’s also not tearing the wall down?” Peter’s staring at where the wisteria grows even higher, climbing up the back of the turret. 

“Yeah, those trunks are strong as shit. The first time, it almost pulled down this whole side of the house. After I fixed it I had to enchant the hell out of the siding to keep it from getting fucked up again,” Stiles says. “It was either that or give up my lifelong dream of having wisteria, and like hell was that happening.”

Peter shakes his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Talia would be so envious. She never could get hers to grow,” Peter says.

“Wisteria isn’t something even an alpha werewolf can bend to her will,” Stiles says, which makes Peter’s grin turn into a full smile. Stiles doesn’t blame him. If he were the younger sibling of Talia Hale he’d probably want her roasted once in a while, too. “Come on in.”

Peter follows Stiles up the two steps onto the covered back deck, which is covered in more potted plants and has a wooden porch swing hanging from the beam above it. Stiles had wanted a place to sit outside and read and it quickly became one of his favorite parts of the house. Peter doesn’t touch anything as they walk through to the living room, though he’s peering around as they go. Stiles doesn’t blame him, though he also doesn’t let him stop and linger in the doorway of his amulet workshop, though he can tell he wants to.

“Here,” Stiles says, handing Peter the jug of tonic. Peter looks down at the turquoise liquid in the old milk jug, raising an eyebrow. “What, did you expect a bubbling cauldron? Or the bottle with a skull and crossbones on it?”

“A bit,” Peter admits, sniffing the jug curiously. 

“Nothing in there is poisonous to werewolves,” Stiles says, then hands Peter the scribbled instructions. “Have her use a teaspoon right before bed for dreamless sleep. And I mean it, _just_ a teaspoon so she doesn’t end up sleeping for days.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her,” Peter says, voice trailing off as he stares at Callista, curled up on the couch, looking up at him with luminous yellow eyes. Peter frowns slightly. “Do you have two cats?”

“No,” Stiles says, looking down at Callista, who just blinks at him before closing her eyes.

“Weren’t her eyes blue earlier this week?” Peter asks.

“Oh, yeah, they do that,” Stiles says dismissively. 

Peter stares at Callista for another moment before shrugging, turning his attention back to Stiles. He pulls out an envelope from his pocket, handing it over before offering his hand to shake. “Much appreciated,” Peter says, fingers caressing the back of Stiles’ hand as he pulls back. There’s a look in his eye that makes Stiles’ breath come a bit short. “I’m sure I’ll have the pleasure of your company again soon.”

“Any time,” Stiles manages to say, positive he’s blushing. “Uh, yeah, whatever you need, I’m here.”

Look, people don’t flirt with him, okay? At least not here. When he travels, sure, sometimes he attracts a certain kind of attention from supernatural beings he meets, but in Beacon Hills he’s either seen as some kind of weirdo or someone to be revered. It’s a bit obnoxious, actually. But it also means he’s a bit out of practice in how to flirt back.

Peter doesn’t seem to mind, just keeps looking at him with that hungry expression before walking toward the front door. “Pleasure doing business with you,” Peter says.

“You too,” Stiles says, watching as Peter leaves. If he peeks out the window, watching Peter’s admittedly wonderful ass as he makes his way back down the front path, well, that’s his business. He stills for a moment, feeling something...flutter at the edge of his awareness, but a second later it’s gone. He stays where he is, reaching out as far as he can, but everything on his property and near is as it should be. Eventually he shrugs and goes back inside, though he does make sure everything is warded up tightly. 

That’s the last Stiles expects to see of Peter Hale for quite a while. But a week later Peter just...shows up. Not because he needs anything, he just seems to want to. Stiles is in the backyard, sitting with his back against the gnarled, twisting trunk of his willow tree in a deep meditation, when he feels Peter cross the wards. Stiles opens his eyes slowly, coming out of his meditation lazily, the world around him gently swimming into view. Standing a dozen feet away, long grass brushing at his ankles and willow branches billowing around him, is Peter Hale.

“That’s awfully trusting of you,” Peter says, head tilted a bit to the side. Stiles manages to swallow any dog jokes he has.

“Not really,” Stiles says with a shrug, cracking his neck with a groan. “I could feel it was you.”

Peter raises his eyebrows at that. “Oh you could?” 

“Mmm,” Stiles hums, rolling his shoulders, wincing at the pull of his muscles from being in one position for too long. “Everyone has a...kind of a magic signature. Even if they don’t have a drop of supernatural blood or magic, they still feel a certain way.”

“Hmm,” Peter says, taking a few steps closer, though not close enough that he’s towering over where Stiles is sitting. There’s a curious, mischievous glint in his eye. “And what do I feel like, Stiles?”

_Warmth. Velvet. Violence._ “$10 wine and an attitude problem.” Stiles winks and adds, “Maybe with a bit of derision.”

“You wound me,” Peter says, clutching a hand over his heart. “May I join you?” Peter motions to the ground next to Stiles.

“Sure, pull up some tree trunk,” Stiles says, patting the grass next to him.

Peter does, casually lowering himself until he’s sitting next to Stiles, seemingly unconcerned about dirt on his clothes. “This is the biggest weeping willow I’ve ever seen,” Peter says, gazing up into the high branches, rustling with the wind.

“Plants like me,” Stiles says with a shrug. “I always wanted a weeping willow since I watched Pochahontas as a kid and thought Grandmother Willow was rad as hell. That’s of course before learning how racist that movie is to Native Americans but, ya know, I still liked willows.”

Peter turns his head, looking critically at the trunk he’s leaning against. “Is this tree about to grow a face and bite me or something?” he asks.

Stiles laughs. “No, regular willow,” he says. “Come into the greenhouse sometime and, well, that’s a different story.” Peter looks like he has no idea what to say to that so Stiles asks, “How’s Cora?”

“She’s good,” Peter says. “Sleeping well, a lot less stressed.”

“Good,” Stiles says. “Stress can do weird things to people.”

“When Talia was a teenager she had a period where she was so stressed she’d randomly grow a wolf’s tail,” Peter says. Stiles’ jaw drops. He stares at Peter, unsure if he’s telling the truth. Peter grins. “I’m completely serious. She had to be homeschooled for three months.”

Stiles throws his head back as he laughs, head thunking against the trunk. He doesn’t care; the image of the haughty Talia Hale randomly sprouting a tail is going to keep him warm all through next winter. 

“I will trade your funny Talia anecdote for a Deaton one. Deaton is part of the Druid clan that honors the oak trees, right?” Stiles says, grinning. “The oak dryads in the preserve fucking _hate_ him.”

Peter barks out a laugh, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling and lord, why does Stiles find that attractive?

“They told you that?” Peter asks, still smiling. 

“Yeah, they were complaining about him coming to their trees and trying to communicate all the time,” Stiles says. “He stopped once Delphine dropped a branch on his head.”

Peter laughs again, but his eyes, twinkling with mirth, are trained on Stiles in a way that makes him fight not to squirm, because no one looks at him like that and really he doesn’t know what to do with it. They sit in silence for a while, just looking at the way the wind makes the willow sway, before Peter starts to speak.

“You said you could feel me,” Peter says carefully, like he’s trying not to offend. “What else can you feel?”

“I’m not a precog or anything. I can just feel anything that crosses my wards. Sometimes the nemeton or dryads or other fae in the preserve reach out and I can feel that,” Stiles says easily. “I can feel the strings of the universe moving around me. Sometimes I can hear the sound it makes when one’s pulled, but it’s usually just a slight vibration. A kind of...hum that’s always in the background.”

“And when it’s not a slight vibration?” Peter asks.

“It’s, uh, loud? Not really useful as a warning system because I really only feel it as something is happening,” Stiles says. There was a rustle during the Hale arson attempt. He doesn’t tell Peter that. “It feels like something’s shaking me apart. I’ve only gotten really loud cues twice.” Stiles manages to suppress a shudder. He wasn’t as magically strong as he is now when the September 11th attacks happened, but he was still able to feel and hear the reverberation of it through the universe, like a massive symphony of violins shrieking inside his head. Stiles winces, seeing Peter’s stunned expression. “Sorry, I forget things like that make people uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Peter says, face turning serious. “Stiles, I’m fascinated by everything you say.”

And, well, now he’s blushing. He’s about to say something flippant and probably inappropriate, as he tends to, especially when he doesn’t know what to say, but he manages to shove down that instinct and instead say, “Then, uh, you’re in for some doozies if you stick around.”

Before Peter can even answer, his phone starts ringing. Peter sighs, eyes closing briefly before he pulls it out and silences it. “Talia always seems to know when to interrupt,” Peter grumbles, standing gracefully and offering Stiles a hand up. He takes it though he doesn’t need it, letting Peter pull him to his feet. Peter doesn’t drop his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I’ll see you soon, Stiles.”

It’s not until Peter is long gone, his magical signature well clear from Stiles’ wards, that his stupid racing heart finally gets back to normal. He feels like someone in a Bronte novel where someone briefly touched his hand and he’s ready to faint. He lets his head hit the bark of the tree again, groaning. Of course he had to go and get a crush on a ridiculous werewolf. Fantastic. 

Stiles isn’t sure what Peter means when he says he’ll see him soon (soon for a werewolf? They can live to over a hundred easily! How soon is soon?), but two days later Peter’s back at dinnertime, bringing with him an absolute feast of Chinese food.

“I wasn’t sure what you like,” Peter says when Stiles opens the door, mouth hanging open at the bulging bags in Peter’s hand. Peter raises his eyebrows when Stiles says nothing, just stares open-mouthed. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah!” Stiles says, shaking himself and stepping aside. “Yeah, come in.”

Stiles closes the door behind Peter, directing him to the dining room to the left. Well, it’s technically the dining room, though the dining table is nearly covered in old books and doodads Stiles has collected from his travels. If it’s not time sensitive, it ends up on the dining table and he gets to it when he can. Stiles hums, pushing a stack of journals farther down the table, giving Peter room to set the food down.

“I never thought I would say this, but I enjoy your chaos,” Peter says, looking around the room. The neon pothos plant climbing up the wall next to the door is bouncing merrily next to Peter’s shoulder, trying to tap him with its leaves.

“Yeah, you do seem like the obsessively organized type,” Stiles says. He steps through the far doorway into the kitchen, reappearing a few moments later with plates, forks, and beer (Peter seems like a beer guy, right?). “Before you judge me about my fork, yes I can use chopsticks, but I’m garbage using them for rice.”

“No judgement here,” Peter says innocently.

“You’re full of shit, Peter Hale.”

Peter barks out a laugh, fine lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. From the impressions Stiles has gotten from various people in the supernatural community, Peter is relatively well-known and pretty feared. Stiles wonders how many people tease him.

Peter really has brought it all. It looks like he bought one of everything on Mandarin Kitchen’s menu. Stiles dumps a bunch of chow mein, sesame chicken, and Mongolian beef onto his plate, pushing Callista away when she tries to snag some chicken. She just leaps over his hand and makes off with an eggroll, smugly jumping to the top of a stack of books where she knows he won’t chase.

“You brat,” Stiles says. She just bites into the eggroll. 

Peter looks up at Callista, eyes narrowing. “You have to be fucking with me. Her eyes are pink now?”

Stiles glances up and sure enough, Callista’s eyes are a bright fuschia. “Yeah, I guess so,” Stiles says. “She’s not your average housecat.”

“Is she your familiar?” Peter asks. 

Stiles looks over in surprise. “Have you been reading up on witches?” he asks, slowly grinning.

“Maybe,” Peter says. He leans forward, careful not to get his sleeves into his mango shrimp. “I told you; you’re fascinating, Stiles.”

Stiles can feel his traitorous blush rise in his cheeks. “Most people would say bizarre,” Stiles says. 

“Mm, no,” Peter says, sitting back and shaking his head. “No, they’d be wrong. And probably envious.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Uh, yes, she’s my familiar. She has a bit more magic than the average familiar, though.” Callista mrreows from her perch, licking her paws clean. “I rescued her from what was basically a shady magical animal breeding ring.”

“What exactly is a shady magical animal breeding ring?” Peter asks.

“They were trying to breed stronger and stronger magic in animals, thinking they could sell them as designer familiars,” Stiles says.

“That’s...not how familiars work?” Peter says.

“No, not at all,” Stiles says. “I was pulled to Callista all the way in Chicago and...kind of blew my lid when I found the conditions of the place they were using.”

“Oh?” Peter asks.

“Yeah...it may have been ruled a gas explosion by local cops,” Stiles says quickly before taking a drink. Peter’s hand twitches, like he’s itching to grab his phone and look it up. “Anyway. Yes, she’s a slightly more magically-imbued familiar.”

“What do the different colors of eyes mean?” Peter asks.

“Depends. Usually it has something to do with what dimension she’s looking in,” Stiles says. 

Peter’s chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry, did you say she can look into other dimensions?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, grinning at Peter’s shock. “There are infinite dimensions, obviously, but there are a few that overlap with ours a bit. Some creatures can pass between, some kind of exist in the same spaces as us but on a slightly different wavelength so we never see each other and never really touch. She watches those sometimes.”

“Are you just regurgitating a Stargate SG-1 episode at me and thinking I won’t notice?” Peter asks suspiciously.

Stiles laughs. “No, but they got it surprisingly accurate,” he says. “Sometimes there are other reasons, though there are also times I have no idea why they change colors.”

Stiles is expecting alarm on Peter’s face, like most people get when there are things just outside the normal realm of possibility, but Peter just looks fascinated. Stiles flushes a bit, shoving a bite of sesame chicken into his mouth to keep himself from saying something embarrassing. Peter just watches him. When Stiles finishes his bite, he tries to switch the topic.

“We talk about me a lot,” Stiles says. “What about you, what’s important in your life?”

Peter tilts his head to the side, piercing eyes staring straight into Stiles’ before saying, “Aren’t you an interesting thing.” Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that, but luckily he doesn’t have to because Peter keeps going. “I’m a lawyer, but that’s not what you asked, is it?” Peter pauses, humming as he twists the chopstick in his fingers. “History. I enjoy diving into the supernatural history that weaves in the background of the mundane history that most of the world accepts as fact.”

“Oh, like what?” Stiles asks, leaning forward. He knows a bit about supernatural history, but it’s hard to find the truth amongst the mythology, especially if the species is extinct or particularly cagey.

Peter grins, leaning forward. “Guess which pope was a vampire.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “ _No!_ ”

“Yes,” Peter says, looking very satisfied.

“There are like two hundred popes!”

“Mm, more,” Peter says, taking a bite of his noodles. 

“Is he on the Wikipedia list of sexually active popes?” Stiles asks.

Peter smirks. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god, are you really not going to tell me?” Stiles asks.

“Do some research and get back to me,” Peter says. “Though I will tell you that Queen Victoria was part dragon.”

“Shut up, she was not!” Stiles says, delighted.

“She was,” Peter says. “Obviously that’s not something they wanted to get out.”

“You should teach a supernatural history class,” Stiles says. “I’m sure you’d have a lot of interest.”

Peter shrugs. “Maybe. I doubt there’s much call for a secret class for supernaturals about secret history,” he says.

“You never know. There are probably a lot of people like us who’d be fascinated,” Stiles says.

“I doubt there are many people like you,” Peter says. There are plenty of people who have said something similar like that to him, their voices full of derision or irritation. But Peter’s looking at him with what looks suspiciously like admiration.

Stiles smiles, trying to ignore the heat of his face. “You know, I don’t think there are that many people like Peter Hale in the world.”

“Well, obviously,” Peter says, though he looks pleased.

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, taking the last bite on his plate. He chews thoughtfully, watching as Peter tries to guard his plate from Callista, who just hopped down from her perch and is making a move on his honey walnut shrimp. At the last second, she dodges his blocking attempts and makes off with a piece of almond chicken, jumping back up her pile of books. Stiles snorts. Stiles learned the first week having her that she’s a clever thing and has no problem feinting for his food, making him think she wants potatoes then making off with steak. Peter flashes his eyes blue at Callista, lip curling to show his sharpened fangs. Callista just chews on her chicken.

“Hey, Peter, what are you doing tomorrow night?” Stiles asks.

Peter’s eyes fade back to their regular blue, the supernatural light dissipating. He doesn’t look at all embarrassed about having a stare down with a cat.

“Probably watching Deadwood reruns. Why?” Peter says.

“I need a...spotter, basically,” Stiles says. “Interested?”

Peter lights up, grinning. “Absolutely.”

“Really? You don’t even know what it is yet,” Stiles says.

Peter just shrugs. “I don’t care,” he says. 

A peculiar warmth gathers in Stiles’ belly. He clears his throat and says, “Good, uh, around 7:00?”

“I’ll be here,” Peter promises. 

They chat a bit longer while they eat, mostly sharing gossip about their least favorable Beacon Hills residents, before Peter sighs and says he should go, citing early work tomorrow. Stiles tries to force him to take some of the leftovers but Peter won’t, saying he bets Stiles forgets to feed himself. Stiles doesn’t really have an argument against that since Peter is uncannily correct. 

Peter looks at him for a long moment in the before he leaves, and for a brief moment Stiles is sure Peter is going to kiss him, but then he lifts his hand, brushing the back of his knuckles over Stiles’ cheek before murmuring, “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

With that, he turns and crosses the front porch, down the steps, and follows the path through the wild and overgrown front yard. Peter no longer walks through the yard stiffly, like he’s prepared for disaster at any moment. He doesn’t so much as twitch when the vines winding around the arches along the path trail over his shoulders and hair and ears, even tapping one playfully as he passes. Stiles doesn’t relize he has a stupid grin on his face until after he closes the door after Peter. He turns to see Callista sitting behind him, fuschia eyes fixed on him.

“Don’t you judge me, missy,” he says, pointing his finger at her. She just continues to stare. “Brat.”

Stiles wasn’t making it up when he said he needed a spotter. Astral projection has always been a weak point for him. He’s not sure why, but he’s always struggled with both maintaining the projection and the distance he’s able to ‘throw’ himself. He’s gotten better at it locally and has been steadily moving farther out, working his way to the midwest comfortably. He’s trying even farther out, Kentucky, and it would be helpful to have someone there, just in case.

Stiles wants to get to sleep early that night, knowing if he’s going to do something that takes up so much energy, he really needs his rest. But he keeps replaying Peter’s touch, butterflies going mad in his stomach until he buries his face into his pillow with a groan. He eventually has to take a bit of a sleeping tonic similar to the one he made for Cora and finally falls asleep, Callista curled against the back of his thighs. 

Stiles doesn’t have much to do the next day. He checks on the fertility potion for a woman a county over, which is bubbling away in the vacated Monsters, Inc. crockpot, before tending to the greenhouse. Most plants are doing well enough and don’t need to be watered today, but his huge Venus flytrap gets grumpy if he doesn’t spend enough time in there. He tinkers around in his amulet workshop for a while, but really, it’s much too nice of a day to spend it all inside. He ends up on the porch, curling up on the oversize, padded porch swing with a book about the Salem witch trials, which he really should return to the library soon.

That’s how Peter finds him hours later, dozing with the book open and resting in his lap. Stiles feels the tickle of Peter crossing the wards but doesn’t bother opening his eyes, rather enjoying the velvet slide down his spine that feels like Peter. It’s only when Peter’s soft footsteps stop in front of him (and Stiles appreciates that he steps loudly enough to be heard) and clears his throat that Stiles opens his eyes.

“I must say, this life of yours seems awfully appealing,” Peter says. He’s leaning casually against the porch railing, legs crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing fitted jeans, his long-sleeved v-neck’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stiles’ brain is still a little sleepy, so he doesn’t manage to rein in the way his eyes wander over the stretched material over his biceps, his thick neck when he tilts his head to the side, and Stiles realizes he’s waiting for a response.

“It works for me,” Stiles says, sitting up with a groan. He rolls his shoulders, closes his book, and stands, fighting down a yawn. “Come on in.”

Peter follows Stiles into the house and up the grand staircase across from the front door. Stiles turns right, walking past the guest room and into what he calls the quiet room, attached to his office space in the turret. Anything he needs to do that requires meditation and concentration, which is an annoying amount of magical work, he does in here. The room has deep blue wallpaper with thick, vertical stripes and dark blackout curtains that keep him from peering out the window and getting distracted. There’s a squashy couch but he hardly ever uses it, generally sitting on one of the many cushions he has on the floor in the center of the room, far away from the candles he uses in case he flails and knocks one over. 

“I feel like I’m in a fortune telling tent at the fair,” Peter says, looking up at the gauzy fabric hanging from the ceiling, making it look like they are indeed in a giant tent. “Or Professor Trelawny’s office.”

Stiles snorts. “Word to the wise, don’t let any actual psychics ever hear you saying that,” Stiles says. “Who’s your favorite Harry Potter character?”

“Not Remus Lupin,” Peter says, making Stiles huff a laugh.

“Yeah, I figured not,” Stiles says.

“Hmm. George Weasley, I think,” Peter says. “Yours?”

“That tracks. I love Luna,” Stiles says immediately. “She’s weird as fuck.”

“That also tracks,” Peter says. “What do you need me to do?”

“So I’m going to be astral projecting, which means I’m throwing my consciousness and a spectre of me to a different place,” Stiles says as he walks around, arranging the cushions to his liking. “So my body will just be chilling here, uh, unattended. I don’t expect anything to happen, but, you know, I’d like someone here just in case. The worst I’ve had is like a nosebleed because my physical body jerked when my astral projection-me did, but that was because I fell and hit my nose, which is why there is no longer a coffee table in here.” 

“Okay,” Peter says slowly. “So you’re looking for, what, a bodyguard? Could anyone even break in here if they tried?”

“Kinda. And no, they couldn’t,” Stiles says. “Just like, keep me from flailing and breaking anything. If I start shaking or something and you think it’s an issue, slap me or something, okay? I’m serious,” he adds when Peter’s looking at him like he isn’t sure if he’s kidding or not. “Callista will dig her claws in if she thinks there’s a problem, so I’d rather not have to add to the cat scar collection.”

Peter looks to the doorway, where sure enough Callista is watching them with deep red eyes. 

“Is the look of the day ‘demon’?” Peter asks.

“No,” Stiles says, grinning. “Though I could introduce you to one, if you’d like.”

“No thanks, I don’t need to meet another Talia.”

“Ha!” Stiles says. “Yeah, that’s fair. Douglas is nicer, I think.”

“Douglas the demon?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, cute, isn’t it? He changes it every couple hundred years. Gotta stay up-to-date on modern names,” Stiles says.

Peter nods. “I like it. Are you stalling?” 

“A bit,” Stiles says, nodding. “Uh, I’m not good at being bad at things. And I know that sounds like I think I’m fantastic, but no, I usually just quit things I’m bad at. I’m not great with astral projection but it’s something I need to know, so I’m forcing myself to learn.”

“And the only thing you hate more than being bad at something is someone seeing you bad at it?” Peter says.

“God, yes, exactly. So you’re familiar with the sensation,” Stiles says. “So just...keep the mockery to a minimum, all right.”

“I promise to only make fun of your table manners,” Peter says. 

Stiles laughs. “Okay, so grab a cushion and sit across from me,” he says, arranging his spot a bit more before sitting down with his legs crossed. Peter doesn’t question him, just drops his cushion across from Stiles and sits down, mirroring his position. “When I start, I usually kind of...slouch a bit. That’s normal, so don’t be alarmed.”

“Understood,” Peter says. 

“All right, see you in five minutes,” Stiles says with a wink before closing his eyes. 

For a moment there’s nothing, just the usual smell of the citrus candles he uses and the soft sound of Peter’s even breathing. Then he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, pushing off the constraints of his body, letting himself sink into that shadowy, ethereal place that makes up what he’s come to think of as a sort of waiting room for the astral plane. When he opens his eyes, there’s nothing but swirling clouds of mists as far as he can see. It’s truly unstructured space here, waiting for him to do something.

Stiles is ready for this. He knows exactly where in Louisville he’s going, knows what the house looks like, and from there knows exactly how to hone in on the person he’s aiming for. He gathers his magic, watches it swirl the mist around his hands, then he’s throwing his astral self through the astral plane. For a moment, he sees nothing beyond the smear of colors as he speeds through the plane, then the dark bedroom starts to take shape around him.

Stiles wraps himself in the inherent magic of the astral plane, shaping those mists until he’s nothing but a dark mass with glowing, red eyes. Something that people would see and think ‘demon’. He stands in a dark corner, letting the shadows of the room settle around him while he waits for the old man, fresh from a day of fighting hard to take away the rights of others. Stiles will aim for the White House eventually, but right now he’ll settle for scaring the piss out of Mitch McConnell. 

It’s only a few minutes until Stiles hears the shuffling of slippers against carpet. A few seconds later, he comes in, keeping the lights off to get into bed. It’s easier to see someone’s aura, their magical signature in the astral plane, and McConnell’s is tinged a sickly green, full of evil and malice. Stiles looks forward to seeing his smug face slack with fear. As soon as he’s settled in bed, just a bit of light from the streetlight outside spilling in, Stiles surges forward. The shadows wrapped around him move with him, until he’s floating three feet above the ground in front of the bed. He’s a bit dramatic, so what?

“Your soul is blackened,” Stiles says, his altered voice deep and raspy. McConnell sits up straight in bed, staring at Stiles, face pale and horrified, eyes wide. “Hell has a spot held just for you. Thank you for making it so easy. Not many serve our dark father as faithfully as you did in life.”

McConnell sputters, tries to claim that he’d never serve the devil but Stiles just laughs, graveley and rough. “You’ve been a good, faithful servant. Don’t worry, your time is coming soon.”

God, it feels good to see the tears stream down his face, his lip quivering in fear at the realization that there may actually be consequences for the abysmal life he’s led. Stiles pulls the shadowy mists higher, ready for a big, overdramatic finish while McConnell cries so hard he may pass out, but then he feels a jolt, then the sensation of falling. The room around him disappears as he’s yanked back through the astral plane toward California. 

He jolts to a stop in Kansas, next to a very dilapidated barn. He barely has a second to orient himself before he’s falling back again, rematerializing in the desert of Nevada. It’s like the magical connection points used to throw his astral form are failing, one by one. He’s at least able to brace this time when it feels like the floor falls from under him and he’s crashing back into his body in Beacon Hills.

Stiles groans, feeling his astral self settle back into his body. He slowly becomes aware of the smell of citrus and the soft pillows beneath him, and...arms? It takes a second, but then he places the sound of Peter breathing harshly, calling his name again and again, and oh, he should answer.

“‘M fine,” Stiles says, eyes still closed. “Just a crash landing.”

“Right, fine, that’s why you’re slurring and bleeding from your nose,” Peter says, though his biting sarcasm is tinged with worry and ain’t that nice.

“The nose again?” Stiles asks, finally summonly the will to open his eyes. The first thing he sees is Peter’s very worried face, _very_ close to his, with Callista perched on his shoulder, staring down like she was ready to pounce. “I’m fine, really,” Stiles says, pulling himself until he’s sitting up, Peter’s arm still wrapped around his back and oh, that’s certainly putting them close together.

“Right, fine, violently shaking and spontaneously bleeding out of your face, certainly fine,” Peter says caustically, though his eyes look worried. Callista meows from his shoulder.

“Traitor,” Stiles grumbles at her. “Really, I’m fine, just kind of overdid it.”

“Uh huh,” Peter says doubtfully. “All right, wizard wonder kid, up you get.”

“I’m not a wizard,” Stiles grumbles, letting Peter carefully pull him to his feet. “I’m a witch and JK Rowling is a twat for...well, a _lot_ of things, but for making everyone think witch and wizard are the same thing, just along gender binaries.”

“Okay _witch_ wonder,” Peter says, the asshole, “let’s clean up that bloody face that was totally intentional, I’m sure.”

“Oh fuck you, fur face,” Stiles says, but he points Peter to the bathroom down the hall anyway. He’s glad Peter doesn’t try to carry him because he doesn’t think his dignity can take that hit today, but when he sees the blood covering the lower half of his face, he figures the dignity boat sailed already.

Thankfully his nose is already done bleeding, so he’s able to just clean off the drying blood with one of the hand towels. Peter’s eye twitches at that, which just tickles Stiles pink. Once he seems sure Stiles isn’t about to fall on his face, he starts tapping at his phone, looking up often enough to make sure Stiles is still dabbing at his face before looking back down.

“Well,” Stiles says, double-checking his reflection is clean in the mirror before turning around, “not that this hasn’t been completely embarrassing, but I think I’m good and ready to lick my humiliating wounds in peace, so to say, so -”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peter says, handing him a dry towel (Stiles hadn’t even seen him look in the cabinet). “You think I’m leaving you alone after a magical mishap? Pizza is already on the way.”

“I...you...Okay, first of all, it wasn’t a _mishap_ , just a slight...overdoing of...things,” Stiles says. “Second, how the hell did you already order pizza? No one delivers out here.”

“Jackie, my brother’s daughter, works at Mama’s Pizza. She’s on the way,” Peter says. He leans forward, brows furrowed as he tilts Stiles’ face to the side, thumb brushing over his jawline, picking up a tiny speck of blood he’d missed. “Let’s get you downstairs.”

“I can walk,” Stiles says, knowing he sounds petulant, when Peter offers his hand. He exhales harshly. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Peter says mildly. 

“No it’s not,” Stiles says with a sigh. “I’m not good at being mother henned.”

“Is that what you think being cared for is? Being mother henned?” Peter asks. He sounds genuinely curious, not condescending, which is why Stiles’ feathers are quite as ruffled as they could be.

“No, I just…” Stiles shrugs. “I do it myself, man. I’ve done it myself for as long as I can remember.”

Peter makes a bit of a constipated face, like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something and knowing Peter, that’s a very difficult thing. He manages to keep his mouth shut though, which is smart of him. He follows Stiles down the stairs to the first floor, and Stiles can _feel_ Peter’s hand hovering over his back, like he’s ready to catch him if he takes a nosedive. Nice and all, but he isn’t quite that weak. He just...overdid it a bit. Probably shouldn’t have done illusionary magic while astral projecting that far for the first time, but live and learn.

Stiles leads him back to the living room he’d shown Peter the first time he’d come over, Callista weaving between their legs, and really, seeing a cat almost trip a werewolf has made his little astral fall completely worth it. Peter doesn’t hover when Stiles flops onto one side of the couch; he merely sits on the other side, staring at Stiles intently. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, and this time Peter just raises an eyebrow. “Seriously, I am. Just overdid it a bit.”

“What exactly did you do?” Peter asks.

Stiles grins slowly. “I astral projected into Mitch McConnell’s bedroom and scared the shit out of him.”

Peter barks out a laugh. “Literally?”

“Probably not, he was crying when I was yanked back though,” Stiles says. “I literally disappeared into a dark mist. Hopefully he believes he was visited by a demon.”

“You know, it’s very rare that I don’t know what to say,” Peter says, tilting his head to the side and looking at Stiles. “And yet you constantly leave me at a loss for words.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Stiles says, right when the wards tell him someone is approaching the house. “Also I think your niece is here.”

“She is,” Peter says, standing smoothly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Stiles hears the front door open, Peter venturing outside to meet Jackie Hale. It’s...odd that he can feel Peter Hale walking through his front yard, the plants swaying with his movements, no longer on guard, but comfortable and curious. A few moments later, Peter’s returning with two large pizza boxes in his hands, a couple Mama’s Pizza paper plates, a stack of napkins, and parmesan packets on top. 

“Let me guess, a meat lovers and supreme?” Stiles says.

“Close,” Peter says, setting the pizzas down on the coffee table. “Meat lovers and Hawaiian. I assume you’re not one of the monsters who refuses pineapple on pizza.”

“Of course not. You haven’t lived until you’ve had sausage and pineapple pizza,” Stiles says, leaning forward to open the top box. “God, this smells good.” He loads a piece of each pizza onto one of the paper plates. Peter grabs two meat lovers slices and they eat in silence for a while. Stiles drops a piece of sausage for Callista, who pounces on it and runs away before anyone can take it from her. 

Stiles is three pizza slices in (magic takes a lot of energy) when Peter makes a thoughtful noise, turns to him and asks, “What do you think would happen if a werewolf put their claws in your neck when you were astral projecting? Would they see everything you see or would it break the projection?” 

Stiles sits there stunned, then delighted. “I don’t know but we should absolutely find out,” he says. Peter gives him a very unimpressed look. “Not _now_ , obviously.”

“I think you’re a bit too excited at the prospect of being stabbed,” Peter says.

“Well, it’s you,” Stiles says, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s not like you’re going to take my head off or anything.”

Peter looks pained. “Please try to stay out of situations where someone would take off your head.”

“That’s relatively rare,” Stiles says, waving away Peter’s concern. Peter absolutely does not look placated. “Once I’m better at projecting distances, I’ll see if we can bring you with me. I’m sure werewolf eyes and fangs would scare the piss out of Mitch McConnell.”

Peter shakes his head, but before he can say anything, Callista makes off with the last of his crust. 

It’s a bit embarrassing, but Stiles is ready to crash almost as soon as he’s done eating. Astral projection takes a whole lot of magical energy and he’s just pooped. Peter doesn’t seem offended, nor will he agree to take any of the leftovers when he leaves. His hand doesn’t touch Stiles’ cheek when he leaves this time, instead leaning in and slowly brushing his cheek against Stiles’. Stiles’ face heats at the blatant scent marking, and he’s sure his scent is blooming with arousal. 

“Won’t Talia be able to smell me on you?” he asks, voice a little rough.

Peter shrugs. “I don’t live with Talia,” Peter says. “And if I did, her opinion on you means nothing to me.”

“Oh.”

“Mm, oh. Goodnight, Stiles.”

“Goodnight. Thanks for your help.”

He watches Peter go, the vines wound along the iron arches reaching for him as he goes. Stiles is glad Callista is too interested in the leftover pizza to judge his goofy grin.

It’s a week or so after his astral projecting incident that Stiles runs into Talia and Cora at the grocery store. That’s not too unusual; Beacon Hills isn’t exactly a small town but it’s not a thriving metropolis and it’s really inevitable that the supernatural residents run into each other sometimes. Stiles is in the middle of picking a cantaloupe when Talia and Cora pass by on their way through the produce section.

Like usual, Talia nods politely and stiffly, her lips in a thin line. Cora’s eyes linger on Stiles, though. She bites her lip, pausing for a second before Stiles hears her tell Talia, “I’m gonna grab some apples for Laura. I’ll meet you by the seafood.” Stiles doesn’t look up to see what face Talia makes, but a moment later Cora’s standing next to him by the cantaloupes. Her head is tilted to the side, like she’s waiting to make sure Talia is out of earshot before she speaks.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. “I know Peter thanked you already but I still...Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says, voice pitched to match hers. “Anytime you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Cora nods, biting her lip for a moment before saying, “I know Deaton is our emissary, but there just...there are things we can’t always bring to him.”

“I’d like to say I never speak ill of my contemporaries...but I do, and he’s not good enough to be a contemporary of mine,” Stiles says, making Cora snort out a surprised laugh, quickly covering her mouth. Stiles fishes out a business card, a bit crumpled from his pocket. He rubs his thumb over it, murmuring under his breath, making the surface of the card rearrange itself until it says Marianne Johnson, Admissions Counselor. 

“Stanford?” Cora asks, taking the card with raised eyebrows.

“I figured you wouldn’t want anyone seeing my contact information in your possession, considering...well, everything,” Stiles says with a shrug. “But let me know if you ever need anything. I can’t promise I’ll know but I can probably find someone who does.”

Cora smiles slowly. “Thank you,” she says. She takes his cantaloupe out of his hands and puts it back before handing him a different one. “This one smells the freshest,” is all she says before she’s turning on her heel and going to meet up with Talia. Stiles shakes his head a bit. That’s two whole Hales who like him, who knew. 

It’s a little after 2:00 the next morning when Stiles jolts awake, his face jerking off the top of his desk. He’s disoriented for a moment, not sure what woke him, but then he feels the slinky, velvety slide of Peter’s magical signature trailing down his spine. He frowns a bit. His wards should have let him know the second someone was passing them, but Peter’s basically at the front door. Stiles groans, back aching as he stands from the desk chair. He’s just wearing loose sweats, his hair looks like a bird’s nest, but he isn’t going to bother to care because it’s _after two in the morning_.

He knows he’s way too tired to slide through the magical shortcuts throughout the house, instead clinging to the banister as he plunks down the stairs. When he pulls open the front door, Peter’s standing on the other side, his eyebrows raising as he takes in Stiles’ appearance. Stiles doesn’t know if it’d the imprint of his pen on his face from falling asleep on it or the bedhead or his tattoos on full display, but he clears his throat, getting Peter’s attention.

“You know it’s the middle of the night?” Stiles says, voice a bit rough from misuse. 

“I assumed you were awake,” Peter says, frowning slightly. “I couldn’t hear a heartbeat but I could hear the TV on.”

“Oh, yeah I have it warded so no one can sense anything about me inside,” Stiles says. “And I leave the TV on playing M*A*S*H all night because the ghosts like it.”

“The ghosts like M*A*S*H,” Peter repeats slowly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, stifling a yawn. “Well, Catherine and Michael do. Amelia doesn’t care one way or the other.”

“Do they cry at Abyssinia Henry?” Peter asks. “I still tear up at that episode.”

Stiles grins. “Michael does,” he says. “Catherine holds it in better.”

Peter snorts a laugh, face slowly sobering as he takes in Stiles’ tired face. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, it’s fine. I fell asleep at my desk and if you hadn’t woken me up I’d have felt like I’m about 100 years old tomorrow,” Stiles says. He tilts his head a bit, taking in Peter. When he’s this tired, it’s a bit easier to see the vapor of magical auras around people. Peter’s is a hazy deep blue, calm but not still. It feels warm and comfortable around him, and Stiles vaguely thinks that’s probably why he didn’t wake up when Peter crossed the wards; he feels of safety, not alarm. “Why are you here at 2:00 a.m., Peter?”

Peter shrugs, looking slightly more aloof than usual, which Stiles is pretty sure Peter’s way of trying to play it cool. “We run patrols in the preserve, and I may have extended my route a bit,” Peter says. 

Stiles’ grin grows slowly. “Peter Hale, are you worried about my safety?” 

“Not _worried_ ,” Peter says. “Just...conscious.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles says, still grinning. Peter rolls his eyes and huffs, but Stiles talks again before he can open his mouth and ruin it. “I saw Talia and Cora at the grocery store.”

“I heard,” Peter says. “Talia was grumbling about ‘that Stilinski boy’.”

Stiles snorts. “I’d be offended that she calls me a boy when I’m in my mid-twenties, but it just makes her sound like an old lady, so I’ll let it go.”

Peter smirks and shakes his head, looking fond. Before Stiles can comment on _that_ , a huge yawn wracks his body, big enough that his jaw actually cracks. Peter’s smirk softens. “I’ll let you get back to bed,” Peter says. “Goodnight, Stiles.” With that, he turns, heading back through Stiles’ overgrown yard, into the dark trees of the preserve. Stiles waits until he can’t feel Peter anymore before heading inside.

He takes the time to brush his teeth and pull off his pants before crawling into bed. His eyes are closed before his head hits the pillow. Before he falls asleep, he hears a faint tinkling sound, like soft bells, and wonders what Callista has gotten into. A moment later, he’s out cold.

Stiles wakes up feeling a bit...off. His heart is beating just a bit too fast and he’s just a bit jittery. He has days like this, when his anxiety is just at the forefront, when paranoia is just poking him a bit. He’s taken his adderall and his anxiety meds, but he still just feels unbalanced. He keeps thinking he sees something moving out of the corner of his eye, or feeling like there’s something he should be doing. He knows it’s anxiety, he recognizes it for what it is, but having magic and knowing about the supernatural sometimes feeds his paranoia and makes him think of all the other things that could cause him to feel like this. It’s obnoxious.

Callista is sticking to him like glue, sensing his tumultuous emotional state. Her eyes are blue today, and she keeps butting her head against his hands or side or leg, whenever she thinks he’s dwelling a bit too much. Halfway through the morning, she hops onto his shoulder, tail curling around his neck. Somehow she manages to ride around on his shoulders without falling off, and he genuinely can’t tell if it’s magic or just being a cat.

Eventually, Stiles decides he might as well put his paranoia to use and heads to his amulet workshop on the first floor. This room is always just a little bit chaotic. It smells of all the dried plants and ingredients he has stored in jars along dark built-ins that take up an entire wall of his workshop, a peculiar aroma that had his banshee friend Lydia sneezing. There’s a large dining table in the middle of the room that serves as a work station, scarred with burns and gouges and knife marks. He has a protection amulet for a siren with a particularly vengeful relative half-completed on the desk (he’s waiting for a lock of her hair to finish) that he pushes aside. He has a different project in mind. 

Callista sits at the corner of the table, watching as he gathers supplies. He doesn’t think Peter’s exactly ostentatious when it comes to jewelry, so he picks one of the more subtle vials in his collection, about an inch long, shaped like a crystal, and hollow. He fills it with an altered tracking concoction he’d created when he needed something a little stronger than scrying. He tops it off by pricking his finger and squeezing a few drops of his blood into the vial, whispering his magic into the mix. He seals the vial and attaches it to a thin leather cord (he can’t picture Peter as a gold chain guy), watching it shine as it sways back and forth.

His anxiety isn’t gone, but he feels more settled now that he’s done something. Even more settled that it’s something that will keep Peter safe. Doing something so task-driven that he needs to focus on helps when he’s like this, so he doesn’t stop. He makes a few new charms for Lydia (she likes a fun variety), an amulet someone ordered the other night, and a few general protection amulets he likes to keep on hand. He’d had an Etsy shop for a while and they were a big seller, but he got tired of all the fees and just went back to working by word of mouth. On the fifth protection amulet, he thinks he might need to look into an online store of his own.

After a few hours of work, he’s feeling stiff and his fingers are a bit sore. He stretches with a groan, Callista startling when his back cracks. She follows him as he leaves the workshop and goes out the back door. He feels better now, more grounded. He sits on the porch swing, Callista jumping up into his lap. He runs a hand down her back, smiling slightly when she starts purring. He hesitates for a moment, then figures that Peter’s always reaching out to him, he can be the one to do so this time.

Trying not to overthink it, he texts Peter asking _Busy?_

He doesn’t have to wait long. A few minutes of petting Callista later, his phone buzzes with Peter’s response. _Not at all. Why?_

_I have something for you_ , Stiles answers. 

It’s less than a minute this time before he gets a _Be there in an hour?_

Stiles smiles slightly. _Sure_.

He pulls up Snake on his phone as he rocks with Callista, grinning when it starts to rain. He has a few magical plants that can only be harvested after a rainstorm, so this is perfect for potion ingredients. 

Stiles is scratching behind Callista’s ears, watching a small pixie playing tag with a crow over his roses, when he feels Peter cross his wards with the familiar pleasant tingling sensation. “Back porch,” he says, knowing Peter will hear him. Sure enough, a few moments later Peter is strolling around the side of the greenhouse. The pixie and crow make themselves scarce. Peter stares at the rose thicket, and Stiles is sure he’s trying to figure out what the hell he’s smelling, before walking up the porch steps, sitting on the porch swing next to Stiles. He looks good, in dark jeans and a tight v-neck sweater. Stiles feels a bit shabby in his well-worn jeans and holey Black Sabbath shirt.

“Good afternoon,” Peter says.

“You too,” Stiles says. “Did I interrupt anything important?”

“Not at all,” Peter says. “Though Talia is going to be meeting with another alpha next week, so don’t be alarmed by extra werewolves in town.”

“Good to know,” Stiles says. “Though there are rarely any visitors that make their way out here unless they need something.”

“Mm, fair. What’s the bridge for?” Peter asks, changing the subject abruptly and looking out across Stiles’ backyard.

“You can see that?” Stiles asks, startled.

“Yes…” Peter says slowly. “Should I not?”

“It’s not that you _shouldn’t_ , it’s that most people don’t,” Stiles says, a bit perplexed. Lydia can see it, so can a couple witches he’s had over, but the one time Deaton was on his property, he looked right past it like it wasn’t there. Talia hadn’t seen it when she’d come to hash out an informal treaty, and so far Peter’s the only shapeshifter of any kind who’s seen the small wooden bridge that crossed the creek that runs through his yard. “Don’t ever walk across that bridge,” Stiles says seriously.

Peter’s eyebrows fly up. “Why?” he asks.

“Because the fae aren’t particularly happy when people stumble into their territory and you don’t want to be spit out three hundred years later,” Stiles says. Peter stares. “I’m serious.”

“I believe you,” Peter says. “I was just processing.”

Stiles smiles slightly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Peter says. “How’s your day been?”

Stiles shrugs. Peter doesn’t seem to count that as an answer, because he just keeps looking at him expectantly. “My brain’s been dumb today, but I was productive at least.” Stiles stands and beckons Peter to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Peter follows Stiles inside, eyes lighting up when Stiles brings him into the amulet workshop. Peter’s looking every which way, trying to take in all he can at once. Stiles watches, amused, and eventually clears his throat. Peter’s attention shifts to him, and the tips of his ears pink a little, as though actually blushing is beneath him.

“This is my workshop, mostly for amulets,” Stiles says. He picks up one of the protection amulets he’d been working on earlier. “This is just a generic protection amulet for the average person. I keep some on hand just in case.” He points to one of the charms, a little mermaid with a glistening tail. “That’s a charm for a friend. Tailor-made for her so it’ll protect in a very specific way.” He picks up the necklace he made for Peter, hesitating only a second before walking closer and handing it over. 

Peter takes the amulet carefully, reverently turning it in his hands, which is a relief. Stiles hadn’t expected otherwise, but he’s a bit sensitive when it comes to things he’s made for people he cares about. Peter runs his thumb along the edge of the crystal as he studies it, eyes taking in the tiny carvings around the stopper. 

“What’s this one?” Peter asks.

“It’s kind of like a shield and homing beacon in one. It affords some basic protection against enchantments, but the main purpose is tracking,” Stiles says, stepping closer until he and Peter are barely a foot apart. He touches the runes, fingers brushing Peter’s. “If you’re in trouble, you give yourself a little nick with your claws and bleed on that, and I can find you wherever you are.” Peter’s eyes are intent on his, making him swallow before he adds, “This is yours.”

Peter stares at Stiles, gaze more intense than Stiles has ever seen it, before looking back down at the crystal-shaped amulet in his hands. He gently sets the necklace down on Stiles’ work table and tugs Stiles in by the belt loops. Stiles realizes what’s happening right before Peter’s kissing the hell out of him, right there in the middle of his amulet shop.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate for a second, wrapping his arms around Peter and tugging him in even closer. Peter lets out a low rumble deep in his chest that makes Stiles shiver and tighten his grip on him even harder. When they finally part, Stiles is breathing much harder than before, his forehead resting against Peter’s.

“You made it for me,” Peter says, thumbs brushing under the hem of Stiles’ shirt. “You wanted to keep me safe.”

It’s not a question but Stiles answers it anyway. “Yeah, I did,” he says. Peter’s hands tighten on his waist.

“I would rip apart anyone who tried to hurt you,” Peter growls, and sure, maybe it’s not the most romantic declaration to most people, but to creatures like Peter and Stiles, well…it certainly makes Stiles’ heart beat faster, and it’s definitely not from fear.

The only thing that keeps him from kissing Peter again is someone crossing his wards at the front of his property. He sighs, reluctantly loosening his grip on Peter. He’d know the cool, eerie feeling of Lydia’s magical presence anywhere.

“You have a guest,” Peter says, probably hearing her.

“I do,” he says. Peter smirks at the petulance in his voice. “It’s my friend, Lydia. I wasn’t expecting her today. She just kind of pops in sometimes.”

“Mm,” Peter says, thumb brushing over Stiles’ swollen bottom lip. “She may know what you’ve been up to, sweetheart.”

Stiles flushes. “Not the worst thing she’s caught me doing,” Stiles says. He debates for a second, but he doesn’t really want Peter to leave, so he says, “You okay meeting her?”

He thinks he’s managed to surprise Peter, but he smooths it out with a small smile. “Of course,” he says. He gives Stiles a soft kiss right when the doorbell rings. He pulls away and says, “After you.”

Still blushing, and immediately wondering if Lydia is going to threaten Peter’s life, he leads Peter out of his workshop and down the hall to the front door. He pulls it open and says, “You’re a week early.”

Lydia’s eyes only widen slightly as she takes in his kiss-swollen lips, slightly disheveled hair, and the werewolf standing very close behind him. A slow smirk spreads over her lips.

“Well, I had to fly in early to help my mom before her surgery and figured I’d surprise you,” she says. “Though it looks like you have bigger things to do.” She gives Peter a very obvious lookover before winking at Stiles.

There’s a meow from near Stiles’ feet, and a second later, Callista is leaping up right into Lydia’s arms. 

“You’re of course welcome,” Stiles says, opening the door wider for her to walk by. She gives Peter a wicked smile as she passes by him and into the living room, Callista purring in her arms. She makes her way to the armchair by the fireplace that she favors, Callista happily curling up in her lap. “Uh, tea?” Stiles offers, and immediately wants to take it back, because leaving Lydia and Peter alone is probably dumb if he doesn’t want her to grill him.

But of course she says, “Yes, please,” so Stiles turns to head to the kitchen.

Lydia is very particular about how her tea is made, preferring heated in the kettle on the stove instead of microwave or by magic. Stiles says she went to Europe and came back a tea snob, and she says magic leaves a tangy aftertaste, which Stiles has never come across but whatever. So he sits, impatiently waiting for the water to be done. 

He doesn’t think Lydia will be mean to Peter or anything, she’s come a long way from the bitchier high school years (that’s how she described it, Stiles claims no responsibility for the terminology), but she still can be nosy about his love life and...well...he and Peter haven’t _discussed_ anything. He doesn’t know if Peter even wants anything or if it was a one-off kiss. He doesn’t know anything right now. He’s chewing his lip, tapping his fingers on the counter, only realizing he’s accidentally conjuring little fireflies when one almost flies up his nose.

Thankfully, the water finishes soon. He pours it into Lydia’s favorite blue teacup, tosses in a teabag, and all but runs back to the living room. He hadn’t exactly been expecting Armageddon, but Lydia and Peter are...engaged in a very deep conversation? Peter’s on the couch corner nearest Lydia’s chair, talking about some 18th century banshee.

“She was very well regarded at the time, but after her death, her detractors took over quite a bit, so it can be hard to sift through the garbage written after her death,” Peter says.

“Fascinating,” Lydia says. “So, similar to Aisling of Cork?”

“Very,” Peter says. “A little more maligned than Aisling, but very similar.”

“I’ll have to see if my mentor has any information on her,” Lydia says, then smiles as Stiles hands her the tea. “Thank you, Stiles.”

“Sure,” Stiles says. 

“I’m sure I have a book or two somewhere that speak on her,” Peter says. “I’ll look and let Stiles know.”

“That would be great, thank you,” Lydia says. She looks up at Stiles, who is standing there looking very confused. “You can sit, you know…”

“Yeah, I know, I just...expected, uh, explosions?” Stiles says.

Lydia rolls her eyes and Peter looks like he’s close to smirking. “We’re adults, Stiles,” Lydia says.

“Yes, adults with very loud personalities!” 

“You’re digging yourself a bigger hole here,” Peter says.

Stiles groans and collapses onto the couch. “Oh my god, fine,” he says. “Lyds, how was your flight?”

“Fine,” Lydia says. “I graded papers and poured coffee on my seatmate who tried to get me to join the mile high club.”

“Sounds about standard,” Stiles says. “Was it hot?”

Lydia smirks. “Scalding.”

Stiles grins, then turns to Peter. “Lydia is a professor of mathematics at MIT and won a Fields Medal last year,” he says.

Peter’s eyebrows fly up before turning to her. “My congratulations, that’s quite an achievement, especially for someone so young.”

Lydia smiles, looking pleased. 

“I actually just finished your charms earlier today,” Stiles says.

“Oh,” Lydia says, looking surprised and pleased. “Wonderful. I actually have something for you.” Lydia keeps one hand on Callista so she doesn’t fall as she leans over and reaches into the purse at her feet. She pulls out two large ziplock bags full of dirt. Oh _yes_. Stiles’ magic is dancing from his fingertips and skittering along the bags as he takes it from her, obvious enough that he can feel Peter’s eyes following the little sparks.

“Fuck yes,” Stiles says. The bags are taped shut because Lydia will not take the risk of dirt inside her designer bags. He can feel his magic itching to dig in and _create_ , but he pushes it down for later. Peter’s looking at him curiously. “This is graveyard dirt,” Stiles tells him. “Perfect for...well, a lot of what I do.”

“I’m a bit connected to cemeteries,” Lydia says. “When I come across a strong one, I pick up some dirt for him if I can manage. This is from Paris when I was at a conference earlier this year.”

“Oooh, Europe dirt,” Stiles says. 

“Europe dirt,” Lydia repeats, briefly closing her eyes. “This is why they hated you in Copenhagen.”

“They hated me in Copenhagen because my great-grandfather apparently cheated the head of a local coven,” Stiles says. “Zero percent my fault.”

“For once,” Lydia says, taking a sip of tea.

“My mystical, spooky reputation is going to be shattered if you keep coming around just to dunk on me,” Stiles says.

“Considering you just had Peter’s tongue down your throat, I’d hope he knows a bit about the you under all the spookiness,” Lydia says. Stiles sighs, making her smirk. “Stiles, please. You wouldn’t stop giving me grief for months after you found me and Miranda.”

“That’s because I found you and Miranda in _my_ guest room, with the door wide open!”

Lydia shrugs. “We were preoccupied.”

“You traumatized my ghosts.”

“They should learn not to eavesdrop, _Amelia_ ,” Lydia says. Peter looks up with interest because at that moment, the lights flicker and there’s a peculiar feeling of pressure changing, like when you’re ascending in an airplane, and a rush of cold before the air returns to normal.

“Amelia, I presume?” Peter says.

“Yeah, she came with the house,” Stiles says, shaking his head, “which means she sometimes has, er, loud opinions on what it should look like, and has sort of forgotten what human norms are in regards to privacy.”

“Does that mean Catherine and Michael didn’t come with the house?” Peter asks.

“Nope. Amelia’s family lived here, but Michael was attached to an antique mirror I bought at an estate sale, and Catherine I actually removed from a home and brought here,” Stiles says. “She wasn’t ready to move on but was scaring the family so I brought her here until she’s ready.”

“Stiles’ home for wayward ghosts?” Peter jokes.

Stiles snorts, but, “That’s actually a good idea.”

Peter shakes his head but his phone buzzes before he can say anything. He glances down at it with a sigh. “Well, Talia once again has a pressing ‘emergency’,” Peter says. 

“Anything you need help with?” Stiles asks, frowning slightly.

“No, just inter-pack negotiations,” Peter says. “I do have to be going though.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Stiles says, standing as Peter reaches over to shake Lydia’s hand.

“I’ll forward that information about Cairistiona to Stiles,” Peter says. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Lydia says, and Stiles is surprised she actually means it. He sort of assumed their personalities would rub against each other wrong, but he supposes it makes sense that they are more interested in information than ego.

Stiles leads Peter out of the living room, out of sight from Lydia at the front foyer. Peter steps in close, fingers ghosting from Stiles’ shoulders down to lace with his fingers. Stiles hums, brushing his thumb against Peter’s.

“Sorry to cut this short,” Peter murmurs, resting his forehead against Stiles’. “My sister does love to ruin a moment.”

“In all fairness to her, one of my best friends gatecrashed us,” Stiles says.

“We’ll just have to make up for it,” Peter says, brushing a kiss against Stiles’ lips. “Go out with me tomorrow? Around noon?”

“Mm, I can move things around,” Stiles says, dragging a hand up Peter’s torso to tap against the amulet resting under Peter’s shirt. 

“Good,” Peter says. “I’ll pick you up then.”

“Sounds good,” Stiles says, then kisses Peter harder, closing what little space had been between them. Peter pulls away with a groan.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, darling,” Peter says, wrenching himself away like it’s physically difficult. With one last glance, he’s out the front door. 

Stiles lets out a whining groan, taking a few deep breaths to get himself back under control before going back to the living room. Lydia’s smirking, Callista giving an extremely judgemental look.

“Oh, shut up,” Stiles grumbles, making Lydia laugh. 

“Come on, you expect me to say nothing?” Lydia says. “He’s much better than the werepenguin.”

“He wasn’t a _werepenguin_!” Stiles says indignantly. “He was a shapeshifting witch, totally different.”

“Uh huh,” Lydia says, eyes sparkling.

“Whatever,” Stiles grumbles. “Are you staying here or in town?”

“In town,” Lydia says. “Closer to my mom.”

“How’s she doing?” Stiles asks.

“Mostly fine. The implant isn’t hurting her too much but it’s definitely leaking, so it needs to be out soon,” Lydia says. “She can’t lift things heavier than five pounds for quite a while, so I’ll be here for a few weeks at least.”

“Let me know if she needs anything,” Stiles says. “I have a little charm to promote healing. I know she’s wary of supernatural stuff, but just stick it somewhere in her house, she won’t have to do anything.”

“Thank you,” Lydia says gratefully. “Talking about banshee stuff is hard enough.”

Stiles remembers. He vividly remembers Natalie Martin’s attitude when Lydia told her she’s a banshee, and Lydia staying in his spare room for a month before leaving for college. He very clearly remembers Natalie shrieking about him being a satanic heathen poisoning Lydia against her. It’s been ten years since then and Natalie’s stance on banshees has softened since then, but she’s still uneasy about magic. Whatever.

“So, Peter,” Lydia says slyly. “When did that happen?”

“About 30 seconds before you got here,” Stiles says with a mock glare. 

Lydia laughs, scratching Callista behind the ear, making her purr. “Well, he’s smart, attractive, and seems _very_ interested in you,” she says. “What are you going to do about Talia?”

Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, honestly. Peter’s...a very odd werewolf,” Stiles says. “He’s all about taking care of the pack but seems to chafe under Talia’s whole ironfist alpha thing. So he’s not particularly worried about her opinion, but she can make life pretty difficult for him.”

“He doesn’t seem like one to give up,” Lydia says. 

“Oh for sure. He’s more likely to do something that he knows will piss her off just for the sake of it,” Stiles says. “Short of outright ordering him never to speak to me, which I doubt she’ll do just for the sake of the local community’s equilibrium, there’s not much she can do directly.”

“How very Romeo and Juliet,” Lydia says, laughing when Stiles makes a face. “No? Jets and Sharks?”

“The Hales and I aren’t in rival gangs, Lydia,” Stiles says.

“Might as well be. Talia sure seems like a shady gang leader,” Lydia grumbles. Stiles grins, flattered that Lydia is willing to dislike someone she’s barely met simply because she’s rude to Stiles. 

“If she turns into one, I promise you have first dibs on blowing her to the moon,” Stiles says. 

“Thank you,” Lydia said primly. “I know you’re only saying that because you want first dibs on Deaton, but I’ll take it.”

It’s not like he can argue that. He’s been itching to blast Deaton into oblivion but without a proven just cause, the Druid Council would throw a hissy fit, and while Stiles isn’t a druid, they’re still in the ears of important coven leaders that could make his life exceptionally difficult. 

Lydia spends a few more hours visiting, and is thrilled with the charms he sends her off with. He feels much more settled after she goes, like she and Peter reset his shitty mood. It’s not always like that, not at all. Plenty of days, if someone, even someone he loves, comes around him too much he just gets shitty with them, but he’s pleasantly surprised that today is different. He goes to bed that night with Callista curled up next to him, purring happily against his back, excited for tomorrow and especially comfortable. He doesn’t even notice the odd chime at the edge of his consciousness as he drops off. 

Stiles is so ready to see Peter the next day. He’s bad at waiting in general, but especially bad when he’s waiting for something exciting. He’s glad he only has to wait until noon to feel Peter crossing the wards. Stiles grins, opening the door right when Peter reaches the porch. Peter doesn’t look at all surprised, and looks pleased when Stiles all but leaps at him, yanking him close and kissing him hard. When they part, Peter looks more than pleased.

“What was that for?” Peter asks, grinning.

“Happy to see you,” Stiles says with a shrug. Peter doesn’t exactly look surprised, but he doesn’t look like he hears things like that often. Stiles makes a mental note to do that more.

“Ready to go?” Peter asks.

“Yep,” Stiles says. “Bye, Callista! Don’t eat any mice, I need their bones!”

Peter looks amused, taking Stiles’ hand as they weave their way through his front yard. The overgrown bit is really getting out of control, he’ll need to prune soon. He trails his fingers over the vines wrapped around the arch they walk under to get to Peter’s car.

“How do you feel about a bit of a drive?” Peter asks.

“That depends. Does a bit of a drive mean a spontaneous trip to Mexico?” Stiles asks.

“No,” Peter says. 

“Then I’m ready,” Stiles says. 

Peter refuses to tell him where they’re going, but they’ve been on the freeway long enough that Stiles figures San Francisco, a little over an hour away, is their end destination. He asks about how Cora is doing, which is good, thankfully. Ditto the rest of the pack. He doesn’t ask about Deaton, but Peter still, with a sneer on his face, tells him about how Deaton’s scheduled to redo the pack house’s wards soon. Yeah, Stiles doesn’t blame him for the sneer. 

“Is the vampire pope Pope Benedict XVI?” Stiles asks, trying to change Peter’s attention to a happier topic.

“No,” Peter says. “Though I’m not completely convinced he’s 100% human.”

“How do I not know any of this,” Stiles mutters under his breath. “All your little supernatural history facts sound like the Abe Lincoln as a vampire hunter book.”

“Well, there are plenty of things that are suppressed thanks to British colonialism and Catholicism,” Peter says. “Hard to make things common knowledge when the supernatural is still a secret _and_ you have racism and suppression.”

“So you’re saying Abraham Lincoln didn’t hunt vampires,” Stiles says.

“I’m saying if he did, there’s no evidence left behind,” Peter says.

“You’re exhausting.”

Peter just grins. 

Stiles is right, Peter takes the exit into San Francisco. Stiles isn’t good with surprises. He just needs to know stuff! He manages not to bounce too much in his seat, but then Peter’s pulling into the parking lot of the de Young Museum. Stiles gasps.

“Are you going to give me a supernatural history lesson?” Stiles asks.

“Yes,” Peter says. “If that’s something you want-”

“YES, oh my god, yes,” Stiles says. “I’d say you’re a genius but that’d just go to your head.”

“That’s all right, I know you mean it in spirit,” Peter says.

Peter pays for their tickets and is more than happy to play tour guide. Stiles had known Peter is smart, it’s obvious even when he isn’t showing off, but his breadth of knowledge is a bit staggering. Peter has little tidbits about nearly all the painters or sculptors, or about their subjects,

“This painter was a demon,” Peter says, nodding towards a painting of a red, horned demon, that Stiles knows looks nothing like the real thing.

“Then why does it look like that?” he asks.

“He had an odd sense of humor,” Peter says, making Stiles laugh.

Later, Peter points to a painting of Joan of Arc. “Joan wasn’t supernatural, but the things whispering to her were,” he says.

“So I’m guessing not God,” Stiles says.

“Not even remotely,” Peter says.

“Anne Bonney,” Peter says as they move onto the next room, “was part siren, but couldn’t live in the water. Being on a ship was the closest she could get. And she loved piracy.”

Later, “Da Vinci was a genius and definitely met an ogre once and nearly died.”

And, “Michelangelo was once chased by a tatzelwurm.”

Stiles is fascinated, soaking up everything Peter says, and is even able to add his own tidbits when they come to paintings or sculptures of magic-users that he knows more about than Peter. It’s honestly the best date he’s ever had. Easily.

They go to a slightly early dinner after, Stiles happy with sushi since the only really good sushi place in town had gone out of business a few months ago, much to his devastation. Stiles’ eyes fall on the cord he can see around Peter’s neck, the amulet he made peeking out from his v-neck. Stiles feels warmth spread through him and smiles around his next bite of salmon. 

“I should warn you,” Peter says near the end of dinner. “Talia and Deaton are planning a ritual in the preserve.”

“Oh?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised.

“Not for a month or so. They’re trying to find an easy way to access the nemeton. To ‘make sure it’s secure’,” Peter says in an alarmingly close impression of Talia.

Stiles snorts. “Talia hates that I have access to the nemeton when half the time it sends her chasing her fluffy tail when she tries to locate it,” he says.

“How do you know that?” Peter asks.

“It told me,” Stiles says.

It’s truly a mark of how far he and Peter have come that Peter just looks delighted by this instead of stunned.

“So their ritual might be useless,” Peter guesses.

“More than likely,” Stiles says. “I’ll keep an eye on it anyway, but there’s very little a druid and a werewolf can do to force the nemeton to show itself if it doesn’t want to.”

Peter looks absolutely thrilled at this, and it makes Stiles have to ask.

“Why stay?” he asks, making Peter tilt his head in question. “Why remain in the pack if she makes you so miserable?”

Peter hums, seemingly thinking his words over. “I may not get along with her, but Beacon Hills is my home. My nieces and nephews are here, and my other siblings. And of course, now you. I wouldn’t be permitted to stay if I had no pack. I’d need to find another one anyway or become an omega. And no pack nearby would risk Talia’s wrath to take me in.”

Stiles doesn’t know if he should say it, knows he shouldn’t really interfere in a pack’s business, but he’s always been pretty shitty when it comes to rules like that. “I can help with that. If you ever need it,” Stiles says.

Peter looks at him sharply. “What?”

“It’s possible to keep a werewolf grounded without a pack,” Stiles says, careful not to be overhead by the couple dining a few tables away. “It’s not, you know, _ideal_ , but it keeps them sane. If their pack becomes too volatile or unwelcoming, it’s an option.”

Peter looks at him steadily, and Stiles can nearly see the millions of calculations going through his mind. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says slowly, but he doesn’t seem angry. Stiles nods, satisfied, and goes back to his food.

When they’re finished, walking hand in hand back to Peter’s car, Stiles bumps into him, asking, “Do you have gum or something?”

“I have Tic-Tacs in the car,” Peter says. “Why?”

“I mean, I really want to kiss you but I have sushi breath,” Stiles says.

Peter laughs. “I appreciate that. As much as I like your mouth, I prefer it without salmon,” he says.

“No arguments here. I’m trying not to think _too_ hard about your mouth since we’re in public,” Stiles says, pleased as how the expression on Peter’s face intensifies. 

It’s slightly hilarious to be standing next to Peter’s fancy ass car, both of them quickly downing a few Tic-Tacs. As soon as Peter’s is gone, he’s yanking Stiles to him by the belt loops, kissing him within an inch of his life. He’s never been kissed like this, like he’s being devoured. Like his partner wants nothing more than to be here with him, to taste and tease and keep. Because he has no doubt what Peter wants, that Peter isn’t at all interested in casual.

They break the kiss, a passing couple wolf-whistling, making Stiles laugh. 

“I suppose we should leave,” Peter says, brushing his nose against Stiles’. “I’d hate to be arrested for ravishing you here.”

“I’d bail you out,” Stiles says. “Or break you out, whatever.”

“You really are just perfect for me, sweetheart,” Peter says, making Stiles blush.

The drive back to Beacon Hills is...tense. They’re both carefully ignoring it, talking easily and casually, like they weren’t just inches away from jumping each other on the sidewalk. All Stiles knows when they pull into his driveway is he doesn’t want his time with Peter to end.

“Are you coming inside?” Stiles asks. Peter’s eyes darken.

“Do you want me to?” he asks.

“Yes,” Stiles says. Peter grins, not hesitating at all to get out of the car.

The plants in Stiles’ yard are nearly vibrating with his excited energy as he takes Peter by the hand, leading him on the winding path through his front garden, inside, up the stairs to his bedroom. He closes the door behind them, the ghosts knowing not to intrude when it’s not open. 

As soon as the door’s closed Peter’s pressing him back against it, his body a firm line against Stiles’. Peter’s kissing him again, hands framing Stiles’ face. Stiles clutches at Peter’s sides, holding him close. God, it’s been so long since he’s felt wanted like this, when someone was interested in him not just because he’s powerful, or can do favors for him. Peter loves his power, but he wants _Stiles_ , and that just urges Stiles on even more, hands sliding up under Peter’s shirt. Peter groans into his mouth, only pulls back to let Stiles tug his shirt over his head. 

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters, staring at Peter’s shirtless torso. Peter looks more than a bit smug at that. “When do you even have time to work out? You look like you stepped out of a magazine.”

Peter shrugs, stepping closer to Stiles again. “Being a werewolf helps,” Peter says, then he’s pulling Stiles’ shirt over his head, and he’s less curious about Peter’s gym time and more interested in both of them getting undressed sooner rather than later, and how Peter’s mouth is mapping out his tattoos.

They migrate toward Stiles’ bed, pulling off articles of clothing between gasping kisses and roaming hands. When the back of his legs hit the bed, Peter pushes him back onto the mattress, looking down at him hungrily. Stiles isn’t used to being looked at like this, but he thinks, as he scoots farther onto the bed, he could definitely get used to it.

Peter crawls up after him, all predatory grace, and Stiles can’t help but swallow at how thick Peter’s hard cock is between his thighs. Peter runs his large hands up Stiles’ legs, parting his thighs and settling between them. Before Stiles can ask what Peter wants, Peter’s licking up his hard cock and the words completely fall out of his brain. 

Stiles swears Peter’s mouth is going to make him see werewolf Jesus. It takes mere minutes for him to find exactly how Stiles likes to be touched, where to press his tongue, how hard to suck. Stiles threads a shaking hand through Peter’s hair, gripping tighter and moaning when Peter brushes a dry thumb over his hole. 

Stiles reaches out a hand toward his nightstand, and the bottom drawer slides open, the lube he keeps there flying into his hand. Peter raises an eyebrow, grinning as he pulls back from Stiles’ cock.

“Convenient,” Peter says.

“The idea of moving was awf-ahh!” Stiles’ words are cut off when Peter slides a slick finger into him. It’s been a bit since he’s had a partner, but Stiles has an impressive toy collection and enjoys being filled, so it’s no time at all until he’s ready for another, rolling his hips as Peter fucks him on his fingers, only licking and sucking at his cock enough to tease him. 

Peter seems content to fuck him with three fingers, watching him with hunger in his eyes, but Stiles is ready for more. He has a feeling Peter’s waiting for him to say so, and Stiles doesn’t at all mind indulging him.

“Peter,” he says, a bit surprised at how breathy it comes out. Peter brushes against his prostate, making him groan, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he focuses again. “Come on,” he says, reaching down, trying to tug Peter up. “I’d rather come on your cock.”

Peter hisses, fingers jerking inside him before withdrawing. He takes the time to slick up his cock before pressing the blunt tip against Stiles’ opening. He opens up easily as Peter pushes forward, his body desperate for this. Peter shudders when he bottoms out, bracing himself above Stiles with one arm near his head, the other tight on Stiles’ hip.

“Fuck,” Peter says, dipping down for a long, deep kiss. “You’re perfect.”

Stiles rolls his hips, making Peter moan above him. He doesn’t know about perfect, but he’s happy to let Peter think so. Peter thrusts into him, tilting Stiles’ hips up to rest on Peter’s thighs, letting him fuck down deeper into him. Stiles whines, arching into Peter’s thrusts. The angle is perfect, and Peter’s strong enough to easily fuck him like this without any sign of strain or slowing.

“Look at you,” Peter growls. “So good for me. You take it so well, sweetheart.” He grinds deeper into him, Stiles’ hard, aching cock trapped between them. 

“God,” Stiles hisses, meeting Peter’s thrusts as best he can. Peter’s relentless, taking what he needs from Stiles’ body, yanking pleasure to the surface. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been fucked like this, raw and desperate, this thing having built between them for long enough that it’s ready to spill over.

“I’m close,” Peter says through gritted teeth, punctuating it with a dirty little grind of his hips. “Touch yourself, sweetheart. Let me see you come.”

Stiles groans, reaching a hand between their bodies. His cock is hard and aching, and he knows it’s not going to take much, not with Peter above him, fucking him so mercilessly. Stiles barely has to stroke himself a dozen times before he’s clenching down on Peter’s thick cock, crying out as he comes, painting both of their abdomens with his release.

Peter curses under his breath, hips stuttering. Barely ten seconds later he’s stilling, cock jerking as he empties himself deep in Stiles. Stiles shivers, softening cock giving a valiant twitch at the knowledge that he’s going to reek like Peter. Peter hisses Stiles’ name, body releasing his tension as his orgasm fades, leaving them pressed close, breathing roughly.

Peter leans down, kissing him softly, before slowly withdrawing, a mix of come and lube trickling out after. Stiles takes the edge of his sheet, using it to clean the come off his belly, Peter wiping off his cock on the sheet right below Stiles’ mess. Peter rolls onto his back on the clean side of the bed, tugging Stiles with him until he’s splayed on Peter’s chest, Peter’s arm around his waist, the other wrapping around Stiles’ hand where it rests on Peter’s stomach. 

Stiles sighs happily, burrowing a bit into his side until he’s comfortable. He’s a big fan of the afterglow, of lying comfortable with a partner while they come back to themselves. He luxuriates in it, something that hasn’t been shared with most previous partners, but Peter seems happy to lie together, his hand tracing up and down Stiles’ side. He’s still wearing the amulet Stiles made him, which honestly sends a little thrill through him.

“What are you thinking?” Peter asks, watching Stiles play with their laced fingers.

“I’m thinking...that I need your blood,” Stiles says.

Peter raises an eyebrow, not even pausing where he’s stroking Stiles’ side. “Kinky.”

Stiles snorts. “Not quite my kink,” he says. He lets go of Peter’s hand just long enough to touch the necklace before Peter recaptures his fingers. “I was thinking about the best way to make the amulet you asked me to wear,” Stiles says. “To make sure it calls to you and you can find me, I think the best way is to infuse it with a bit of your blood.”

Peter hums, looking down at their entwined hands. “Easy enough. Did you want to do it now?” he asks.

“I don’t have a vial in here and am way too lazy to go get one right now,” Stiles says, making Peter snort. 

“Well I’m not particularly inclined to move either, so I can’t really complain,” Peter says. 

“Wow, sounds like a record for you,” Stiles teases, making Peter sigh dramatically. 

There’s a scratching at the door and Stiles sighs, yelling out, “Stop that!” There’s a pause, then significantly more scratches and Stiles just knows Callista is destroying the paint. “Fucking fine,” Stiles grumbles, waving a hand for the bedroom door to open just a touch. Callista immediately pushes her way in, running over and jumping up onto the bed. She sits on the edge, just looking at them with magenta eyes.

“I’ll accept no judgement from you, missy,” Stiles says, pointing a finger at her. She just blinks long and slow before turning in a circle and curling herself up a few feet away. 

“Does she disapprove?” Peter asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“No,” Stiles says. “She’d be trying to claw you up if she did. She just needs attention.”

Callista’s tail lashes at that, making Stiles laugh. He turns in Peter’s arms until he’s lying on his belly, chin on Peter’s sternum as he looks up at him. 

“Do you have anywhere you need to be?” Stiles asks. “Or can you stay?”

Peter smiles down at him, lifting a hand to brush his finger down Stiles’ cheek. “I have nowhere to be, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be inclined to go anywhere,” he says. 

Stiles grins, not quite able to keep himself from blushing, but Peter seems to like that, so whatever. 

Despite it being early, it’s been a long day and Stiles hasn’t been sleeping the greatest, so he drops off to sleep easily wrapped around Peter. He always feels safe in his home, knows that no one is able to enter if he doesn’t let them, but having Peter next to him, well, that helps in a whole new way.

Stiles wakes up later than usual, Peter wrapped around him like an octopus. He grins, can’t help it, when Peter tightens the arm around his middle, grumbling into the back of his neck. 

“It’s too early,” Peter says. “Go back to sleep.”

“I have a potion to check,” Stiles says. Peter doesn’t move. Stiles rolls his eyes and peels Peter’s arm off of him, which earns him a displeased grunt. When he looks, Peter’s peeking a single eye open, his hair a mess. 

“You’re a morning person, aren’t you?” Peter asks.

“Not remotely,” Stiles says, leaning over to kiss him on the nose. “But I’m not willing to waste two weeks of brewing.”

Peter sighs dramatically, but lets Stiles go. Stiles climbs the stairs and goes to the turret, checking on the Monsters, Inc. crockpot. It’s a healing tonic for a particularly clumsy muse in Canada. It’s nearly done, maybe a day more. Satisfied, Stiles slips through one of his little shortcuts, back in the bedroom moments later. Peter’s sitting up, hair a bit more tame, scrolling through his phone, frowning. 

“Problem?” Stiles asks.

Peter looks up, expression clearing when he sees Stiles. “No,” Peter says. “I just shouldn’t be allowed to answer emails when I first wake up. They come across a bit rude.”

Stiles grins. “You? Rude? I can’t imagine,” Stiles says. 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Brat.”

“Usually,” Stiles says. “Breakfast?”

Breakfast for Stiles is usually just cereal, or leftovers, but, well, he wants to impress Peter still. French toast is easy, and he can fry bacon at the same time. Peter offers to help but gets a spatula to the knuckles for trying.

“You’re a _guest_ ,” Stiles says.

“You’re going to grow out of that mindset quickly,” Peter says. 

“Well you’ll just have to come around more often and work it out of me,” Stiles says, winking before flipping the bacon. 

“Is that from the butcher’s shop on 5th?” Peter asks.

“Yep. I can’t do the grocery store brand anymore,” Stiles says. “I don’t fuck with shady bacon.”

“You truly know the way to a werewolf’s heart,” Peter says.

Stiles flushes a bit, pleased. “I’m working on it,” he says. 

They eat breakfast at Stiles’ crowded dining room table, Callista making off with at least two pieces of bacon and disappearing into the mass of books in the room. When Peter does have to leave, because he’s an adult with responsibilities and Stiles is _not_ pouting about it, he leaves Stiles with a long, slow kiss, hands framing his face.

“I’ll see you soon,” Peter murmurs against his lips. 

“Mm, good,” Stiles says, hands tight on Peter’s hips. “All right, go be a responsible adult at work and all that.”

“Yes, dear,” Peter says, making Stiles snort. 

He watches him go, feeling the happiness and excitement of a new relationship bubbling up within him. He carries it with him through all he does that morning, from watering the plants in his greenhouse (he bats at the toothy begonia that tries to gnaw on his watering can) to answering the mass of emails he received in the last couple of days. He frowns once he reads the message from Gabriela, his psychic friend in Colombia. The message is a bit confusing, but Gabriela’s visions can be like that.

_Stiles, my dear friend, danger is flying on swift wings toward Beacon Hills. Blue eyes, black eyes, piles of stolen lies. Remember you and remember to break free._

_With love,  
Gabriela_

Stiles blinks, having _no_ idea what to do with any of that. He’s never been particularly good with riddling out prophetic visions because just… _anything_ can be a metaphor! Any single part and lordy it’s impossible to truly read them right. She’s sent cryptic warnings his way twice before. One was regarding a mild thunderstorm that took out power for a day or so. The other was before his dad was shot on the job. It wasn’t fatal, but it wasn’t good. So even though it’s possibly not the worst thing in the world, he takes her warning seriously, because it also possibly might be. 

Stiles hadn’t planned on working on the amulet for himself today, but Gabriela’s warning makes him want to accelerate that a little. He has a specific mix he uses for spells and amulets for himself, certain ingredients that tend to be attracted to his spark. He pulls the vial of Peter’s blood from his pocket, looking at the few drops inside. That’s all he needs, really. And he’d wanted to avoid too much pain, but Peter hadn’t even flinched, just watched Stiles with intense eyes as he’d gently cut into the palm of his hand, just enough for a few drops to make their way into the vial. He’d healed in seconds then kissed Stiles senseless. 

Stiles picks a small, hollow starburst-shaped vial, dropping the correct ingredients in their specific order, a citrus scent slowly unfurling and reaching his nose. The last thing he adds is Peter’s blood, a bit surprised to see it let out a brief, blue spark before swirling together in the starburst, settling inside. Stiles seals it with a touch of magic, attaches it to a black cord and slips it over his head. The sunburst rests warm against his chest. It sends a bit of a thrill through him, just to be connected to Peter like this. That Peter _wants_ this. 

Stiles texts Peter that night with a picture of the amulet on his chest. _Amulet is finished_ , he texts. _If I call you, you’ll feel a pull. I don’t know how it specifically feels for a werewolf, but for me, I feel the pull in the direction and the closer I get, the clearer my destination becomes._ He knows that sounds like magical bullshit, but that’s the best he can describe it.

It takes Peter a bit to text back, but when he does, he says, _Thank you, Stiles. I hope you’ll never need it, but I feel better knowing it’s an option._ And well, Stiles can do nothing about the butterflies that flourish in his stomach at that.

Peter’s a busy lawyer, one of the few truly competent ones in Beacon Hills, and he has a busy few weeks, but he manages to spend time with Stiles. Stiles meets him at his fancy office downtown for lunch a couple times, wearing clothes that are more or less normal, not wanting to hurt Peter’s job in any way. He doesn’t seem to care, but still, just in case he runs into any clients. 

They have a few dinners in Beacon Hills, Peter trying Stiles’ favorite hole in the wall diner, and Stiles trying Peter’s favorite fancy-ass French restaurant, both pleasantly surprised at the quality. Then Peter invites Stiles back to his place, something that Stiles recognizes as a big deal from a very dominant werewolf. 

Peter’s condo isn’t in the heart of busy downtown, which Stiles had kind of expected. Instead, his building is in a slightly artsy area of Beacon Hills, a 1920s building retaining a good deal of its original charm. There’s even a doorman that nods politely to Peter as they walk in. The building is nice, which he expected from Peter, but none of the ostentatious wealth that seems to be so common lately. And none of the boring ultra-modern lines and art. 

Peter takes his hand as they get out of the elevator, walking down the hall to Peter’s door. He sighs a second before his neighbor’s door opens, a peppy blonde in her 40s walking out. She opens her mouth like she’s about to try to drag him into conversation, then does a double take seeing Stiles.

“Cecilia,” Peter says with a nod. He keeps on walking, not stopping to get into conversation. Stiles raises his eyebrows once Cecilia is out of earshot. “She got sucked into a makeup pyramid scheme and keeps trying to get me to buy things for Cora and Laura,” Peter says.

Stiles laughs, glancing over his shoulder to where Cecilia is waiting for the elevator. “Which one? Mary Kay? Avon? Arbonne?”

“Younique,” Peter says, nose scrunched up as he pulls out his key, unlocking the front door. “Don’t let her corner you into buying anything, she’s an asshole.”

Peter pushes open the door, leading Stiles into the condo. They’re in a large kitchen and living space, lots of blues and greens and earth tones. Stiles wanders into the walkway between the living room and kitchen, fingers trailing over the cream couch. When he turns, Peter is leaning against the kitchen island, watching him curiously. 

“This is gorgeous,” Stiles says. “And so very you.”

“Thank you,” Peter says, some tension leaking from his frame. “I was planning on cooking, but my last client took longer than I expected.”

“That’s fine,” Stiles says, walking up to Peter, arms going around him. Peter hums, holding Stiles close to him. “We can get takeout and I can blow you while we wait.”

Stiles grins at how Peter’s breath hitches at that. “Deal. Chinese?” Peter asks.

“Sure.”

They order quickly, because Stiles isn’t picky and Peter seems to be less interested in food than Stiles’ mouth. As soon as he hangs up with the restaurant, Stiles slides to his knees in front of Peter right in the center of the kitchen. Peter’s eyes are dark as he looks down at him, hand cupping his cheek. Stiles grins, running his hands up Peter’s thighs, reveling in the longing on Peter’s face, and Stiles has barely gotten his hands on his belt.

Peter’s already hard when Stiles pushes his boxer briefs and jeans down, freeing his thick cock. Stiles licks up the shaft, keeping eye contact with Peter the whole time. Peter hisses, eyes flashing blue like he can’t help himself. Stiles opens his throat more, swallowing down as much of his cock as he can, gratified at the curse Peter lets out.

Stiles loves this, loves the feeling of a heavy cock in his mouth, loves knowing that he’s unraveling someone with such great control as Peter. Peter wraps a hand in Stiles’ hair, the other grasping the edge of the countertop for dear life. Stiles moans around his cock, the vibrations making Peter jerk in his mouth. He knows he’s good at this, and he desperately wants to show Peter just how good.

Peter’s just a tiny bit away from just fucking into Stiles’ mouth, which doesn’t sound that bad really, but he wants Peter falling apart from his mouth and tongue. He works him over faster, sucking and licking at his thick cock, the tip sliding down his throat. Peter curses again, hips jerking in tiny motions like he can’t help it. 

Stiles carefully takes Peter’s balls in his free hand, gently rolling them as he takes Peter as deep into his throat as he can, and that’s all Peter can take. He shouts as he comes, hand painfully tight in Stiles’ hair, his cock jerking in his mouth as he comes down Stiles’ throat. Stiles pulls back when he’s finished, very pleased with himself. His cock is hard in his jeans, but he’s fine waiting until after food to take care of that. 

“Jesus,” Peter says, pulling Stiles to his feet and kissing him roughly, pressing him back against the cabinets. “Do you have any idea how -”

Peter’s interrupted by the intercom buzzer letting him know his food is here. He sighs, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead to Stiles’ briefly before pulling back to buzz in the delivery driver.

“You’re a menace,” Peter says fondly as they wait for the food.

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says. “You like me anyway.”

“I do.”

Dinner is nice, full of good food and better company. After dinner is even nicer, when Peter fucks him so hard he makes the bed levitate. 

Peter kisses him slow and long before he leaves the next morning, their bodies wrapped together. Peter sighs, hands framing Stiles’ face.

“I’ve never wanted to visit the Flanagan Pack less,” he grumbles.

Stiles grins against his lips, kissing him again.

“I’d send you dirty texts but I don’t think you need to smell like arousal during treaty negotiations,” Stiles says. 

“Decidedly not,” Peter says. “The last thing I need is to negotiate out of an arranged marriage.”

“Do werewolves still do that?” Stiles asks, surprised.

“We don’t, some packs do,” Peter says.

“Okay, well, try not to get married,” Stiles says, kissing him one more time before going to the door. “Have a good trip, I’ll miss your stupid face.”

Peter smiles, that dumb, sincere smile that makes his stomach flutter for the next five minutes. He makes a note to make a little charm for Peter’s bedroom, because he gets little bouts of inspiration and he has a vested interest in Peter being safe. 

Stiles, bored with Peter gone, manages to actually catch up on almost all his work. His potions crockpots are empty, the sealed bottles sent out. His amulet shop has no half-finished projects. He gets to just relax...and he’s so, _so_ bored. He tries not to text Peter unless Peter texts him first, just because he knows treaty meetings can be intense and it’s probably best to avoid messing with them in any way. He does make a little charm that he plans to put on Peter’s windowsill. It’s a little wolf howling, which Stiles knows will make Peter roll his eyes but he couldn’t help himself.

Peter’s been gone nearly a week when Stiles wakes up in the morning, feeling a little off. His head kind of feels like it’s in a balloon, just like whenever he has a head cold. God, he hopes he’s not getting sick. He has a dull headache and it takes a bit of an effort to sit up. He really hates being lethargic, hates the sleepy feeling when it follows him around throughout the day. Great.

He brushes his teeth, looking around for Callista. She usually likes to sit on the counter and bat at the faucet water while he rinses his brush, but she’s probably out chasing the crows. He pauses after he rinses his mouth, frowning slightly. He swears he hears a high pitched sound echo in the distance, like the sound of a harp being plucked. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fogginess.

Stiles pulls on his lazy clothes before shuffling out of his bedroom. He doesn’t feel good enough for jeans today, so sweats it is. He doesn’t want to use any of his little shortcuts through time and space, sure he’ll just fall, so he just walks down the stairs and toward the kitchen, stepping onto the squeaky floorboard right before the kitchen. But there’s no squeak.

Stiles’ eyes widen briefly, but he doesn’t break his stride, continuing into the kitchen. He reaches out carefully with his magic, tendrils spreading out, searching for things that don’t belong, things that aren’t quite right. He finds little cracks, places where the illusion doesn’t get reality accurate. Stiles closes his eyes and thrusts his magic into those cracks, because while the illusion is good, it’s like a house made of porcelain, and Stiles, well, he’s an atomic bomb.

The illusion shatters falling away until Stiles’ eyes open, back in reality. He’s sitting in a chair, his hands tied behind his back, pressing against the back of the chair. The ropes digging into his wrists are bewitched with something to dampen his magic. He could break the illusion in his mind since it’s internal, but he can barely summon sparks to his fingertips. He grits his teeth, looking around the room, but it tells him nothing. It’s just blank walls, no windows, no furniture other than his chair. There’s a door on the wall across from him and the second Stiles thinks he may be able to scoot his chair toward it, it opens, a man walking in. He looks maybe 40 and completely average, not someone most people would look at twice on the street, but he feels disgusting. His magic feels corrupt and dangerous, like millions of worms writhing against Stiles’ skin. The man looks at him for a moment with a blank face, before his lips twist into a smirk.

“What gave me away?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs and doesn’t say anything about the floorboard that always squeaks, the one Stiles always steps on for this exact reason. He’s already had his mind invaded once and isn’t keen to do it again. He got the idea from the totems in Inception of all things. He should send Christopher Nolan a thank you card.

“This would have been a lot easier if you were unconscious,” he says, frowning. “I really thought that would work.”

Stiles just shrugs again. He’s not going to give away any information that he doesn’t have to. He can’t remember where he was last. Was he grabbed at the grocery store? No, he thinks he stopped by the station to see his dad before heading home. But he can’t remember actually reaching his house. 

The man sighs and steps closer. Stiles sees the hit coming and braces for it, not letting out a sound when he’s hit hard across the face. He’s been hit worse. The man walks behind him and Stiles can’t help but tense. He’s not hit again, though. The man just puts a hand between his shoulder blades and shoves until Stiles is stumbling forward, barely managing to get his feet under him to stand and not faceplant on the floor.

Stiles isn’t sure what kind of magic this man has, if it’s purely illusions or if he’s capable of more, but his hand is held out toward Stiles, fingers glowing threateningly. It’s not like Stiles can do anything, still feeling a little sluggish from whatever he’d been drugged or hit with, and his magic is being held back by the ropes. So he just glares as he lets the man push him out the door.

He stumbles out into what feels like the preserve, though his ability to feel it around him is greatly diminished by the bewitched ropes tight around him. Glancing behind him, he sees he’d been in what’s basically the tiniest hunting shack he’s ever seen. He looks at the man walking around to stand in front of him.

“What do you want?” Stiles asks.

“You, Stiles, seem to have a bit of an affinity with nemetons,” he says, and Stiles is tempted to just loudly groan over his words. “You’re going to take me to yours.”

“It’s not _mine_ ,” Stiles says, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “You can’t just find a nemeton if it doesn’t want you to.”

The man pulls out an athame from his jacket, not even a nice one, just a cheap thing you can buy from Amazon. Stiles is going to get stabbed by Bezos witchcraft.

“Then you’d better make it want you finding it,” he says.

Stiles sighs, looking around trying to figure out where he is. He doesn’t recognize anything around him so he just picks a direction and starts walking. Maybe he can shove him down a cliff or something, because there’s no way he’s leading this lunatic to the nemeton. It’s had enough pain over the years and dealing with Deaton and Talia trying to find it, he’s not going to lead this man to it, period. 

Stiles just kind of wanders, heading in what he thinks is east, which may or may not be toward the Hale house. It really depends on if he’s in the general area he thinks he’s in. He may not get along with Talia, but she won’t abide a supernatural being threatening anyone in her territory. Stiles isn’t willing to bet everything on that, though. He manages to wiggle a finger into the ropes around his wrists in a way that hides it from the man walking at his side, athame pointed at him. Stiles was right earlier when he thought he couldn’t do much more than sparks, but that might be enough.

Stiles focuses on that one finger pressed against the ropes, summoning the tiny bits of magic available to him. He pushes, small sparks emitting from his fingers. Glancing sideways tells him the man holding him hostage can’t see it, too busy looking around through the trees, like the nemeton will be just a few steps away. Good. 

It takes time. The rope is thick and he only has _finger sparks_ , so it takes a bit to get through. He can feel it weakening, though. Every few minutes his magic is just a little bit stronger, his progress with breaking the rope coming a little bit faster. He’s nearly there, magic beginning to surge through him, but then - 

“What are you doing?” his captor says suddenly, looking down at Stiles’ hands with a frown. Stiles can see the moment the realization hits. His eyes widen and he lunges forward with the athame. Stiles has more magic ready now though, enough that he can create projections. He dodges to the side when he’s lunged at, throwing dozens of projections of himself out around the man as he ducks behind a tree, sending as much magic to breaking the ropes around his wrists as he can. 

The projections swirl around the man, hissing, faces turning grotesque as they herd him, making him stumble and try to get away from them. But it’s not long until he realizes they’re projections and he can’t physically touch them. He snarls, walking straight through the projections, looking around for where the real Stiles went through the projections that keep blocking his vision.

Stiles is nearly done, the rope only hanging on by a thread, when the other man stumbles past his tree, whipping around when he realizes this Stiles has his hands bound, unlike the projections. 

“You,” he hisses, pointing with the athame and rushing forward.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Stiles curses under his breath, the rope snapping barely a second before the knife sinks into his shoulder, making him shout. The man leans on the knife, pressing it deeper. Stiles hates having him this close, the horrible feeling of rotten magic wriggling against his skin.

“You filthy little wi-”

Stiles doesn’t give him a chance to finish his sentence. He pushes the man back with a burst of magic, his head foggy with too much pain to do much else, and yanks the knife from his own shoulder. The man tries to charge him again but Stiles is ready, lunging forward and driving the knife right into the man’s throat, twisting it with vicious satisfaction at his helpless gurgle. Stiles whispers an incantation under his breath as he watches him die, making sure that his magic dies with him, that there’s no raising him again.

That takes all the energy Stiles has left and he slides down against the tree, gasping in pain when a branch catches his shoulder. He raises a shaking hand to his neck, desperately hoping he still has the amulet. He nearly sobs when he feels the cord. His hand is already covered with his own blood and when he squeezes around the necklace, he feels the white hot flash that lets him know it worked, that Peter somewhere will have felt the call.

He doesn’t know if Peter’s even close to Beacon Hills. He doesn’t know what day it is or how long he’s been missing, so for all he knows Peter has no way to get to him and he’s going to die in the middle of the preserve thanks to some crazed magic-user that got the drop on him. Frankly, it’s embarrassing. 

He’s trying to stay awake, but it’s hard with how much blood he’s lost and whatever might still be working through his system. His eyelids are drooping when he thinks he hears a meow. He frowns, forcing his eyes open, to see Callista picking her way through the thick underbrush, her meows growing louder when she spots him, running over and climbing into his lap, her paws on his stomach as she looks up at him in concern. Her eyes are pitch black and he knows if his attacker were still alive, she’d be shredding him.

“Hey Callista,” he struggles to say, managing to lift his uninjured arm to stroke down her back twice, before blackness edges into his vision and he slumps back against the tree, unconscious.

Stiles has no idea how long he’s unconscious for. He thinks he might be hallucinating because when his eyes flutter open, he’s still in the preserve, trees swimming around him, and he’s looking up into the concerned eyes of Cora Hale of all people. Yeah, definitely hallucination. A moment later it’s back to blackness.

The first thing he hears is a slow beeping, which is just annoying. He hasn’t used an actual alarm clock in years, what the _hell_ is beeping? Is one of his potion crockpots going wild? Then he remembers the kidnapper and the fight in the preserve and the _stabbing_. Stiles manages to force his eyes open at that, everything blurry for a moment while he tries to blink quickly to get the room into focus.

He recognizes the Beacon Hills Hospital immediately, and while yeah he’s not thrilled to be needing a hospital again, and his dad is going to flip his shit, he’s definitely happy to be waking up at all. He’s a bit foggy when he looks around, seeing quite a few vases of flowers under the window, Callista curled up at the foot of his bed, and Peter asleep on the chair next to his bed. Stiles’ magic is a bit sluggish right now, but he has enough juice to lift the chapstick Peter has sitting on the bedside table and toss it at Peter’s head with just a casual flick of his fingers.

Peter jerks awake immediately, immediately looking right at Stiles. He exhales sharply and stands quickly, stepping right up to the side of Stiles’ bed. He takes his hand, careful of the IV in the top of Stiles’ hand.

“You’re a handful,” Peter says, making Stiles laugh. He winces at the pain in his shoulder, though it’s much duller than it should be. They must have him on the good meds.

“Yeah, I hear that a lot,” Stiles says. He looks down at Callista, who woke up when Peter spoke. She stretches and walks up farther, delicately sitting in Stiles’ lap. Stiles strokes down her back with his free hand. He has no idea what happened after she found him in the preserve. “What happened?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Peter says. “Cora found you with Callista howling like mad in the preserve next to a dead man.”

“Oof, that’ll give my dad a lot of paperwork,” Stiles says.

“We took care of his body before the cops got there,” Peter says. Stiles raises his eyebrows at the ‘we’. “I felt you call me. I tried to call you and couldn’t. I started driving back but I was hours away, so I called Cora and was able to guide her in the general direction I thought you were in. Callista took care of the rest.”

Stiles swallows hard, looking down at Callista. Her eyes are still black. “Thanks, Callista,” he murmurs to her. She meows in response, nuzzling against his hand. He looks back up at Peter. “Thank you.”

Peter squeezes his hand. “You never have to thank me for that,” Peter says, then the corner of his mouth quirks up. “Once you’re healed, I will be very smug about being right in asking you to make an amulet for yourself.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Stiles says with a grin. “I don’t know who that guy was. I think he drugged me on my way home, which is embarrassing in all honesty.”

“The doctor said there were a _lot_ of tranquilizers in your system,” Peter says. “They were shocked you were able to wake up and fight your kidnapper at all.”

“Magic can burn through things like that quickly,” Stiles says. “He wanted me to take him to the nemeton. I don’t know why, but there are a lot of shady things magic-users can do with one.”

“He smelled like magic and sickness,” Peter says. “We burned his body.”

“Good,” Stiles says. “Let’s keep that fucker dead. What’s the story you told my dad?”

“Cora was on a jog and found you in the preserve. She brought you back into cell service range and called 911 saying she found someone stabbed,” Peter says.

“Okay, that’s good,” Stiles says. “I’ll just tell them I can’t remember anything with all the tranquilizers.”

Peter’s silent for a moment, just looking down at him before speaking. “How are you feeling?” Peter asks.

“Groggy,” Stiles says. “But alive, and that’s pretty great.”

Peter’s smile is soft. “I happen to agree. Cora was terrified she found you too late.”

“I need to get her a gift basket or something,” Stiles says. 

“She never says no to Sour Patch Kids,” Peter says. “I told Talia that we’re seeing each other. She wanted to know why Cora knew to go find you.”

Stiles frowns a bit. “Was she horrible to you about it?”

“She wasn’t thrilled,” Peter says with a careless shrug. “But very little thrills Talia, so I don’t particularly care about that.”

Stiles snorts. “Not ordering you not to see me?”

“No,” Peter says. “She knows better than to try.”

Affection swells in Stiles and he has to blink quickly to keep his eyes dry. “I’m glad I met you, Peter Hale.”

Peter’s eyes soften and he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to Stiles’ forehead. “I’m not interested in thinking about a life without you,” he murmurs, before pulling back. “Your dad and Lydia just arrived.”

Stiles groans. “This is going to suck.”

It really does. His dad is worried sick, looking like he hasn’t slept in days (Stiles finds out he was unconscious after his surgery for the stab wound for two days), and Lydia is furious, though thankfully not at him.

“I screamed for you,” she says quietly while Peter and his dad talk to each other near the door (his dad has given Peter a truly spectacular number of speeding tickets). Lydia’s looking down at where their hands are entwined. “I could feel you. I tried to hold it back, but, you know.”

“I know,” Stiles says, squeezing her hand. “I’ve never been happier to prove you wrong.”

Later that night, after his dad has been called back to work and Lydia’s left, Cora knocks on his door, peeking her head in. Peter’s stepped out because Stiles begged for some pudding, arguing that he absolutely deserves it.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Stiles says, turning off the TV. “I was just watching a thrilling episode of House Hunters.”

Cora snorts, taking the seat Peter’d had next to his bed. “I get too mad watching it,” she says. “I just want to shake so many of them and say to just get a damn divorce if you hate each other so much.”

Stiles laughs, startling Callista, who rearranges herself next to him. Cora looks down at the cat with raised eyebrows.

“They’re letting your cat in here?” she asks.

“They made Peter and my dad take her out like five times but she keeps turning up back in here and I think they’ve just given up,” Stiles says. 

Cora snorts. “Sorry I didn’t come sooner. Mom’s been on a rampage,” she says. “It’s been just pack meeting after pack meeting, and yelling at Deaton for not feeling the magic-user, and more pack meetings about security and borders and all that.”

“That’s all right, I figured you’d have something like that. Or that Talia wouldn’t let you come,” Stiles says.

“She’s softened about you a bit. At least I think,” she says with a shrug. “She can be hard to read, but I think her faith in Deaton is shaken and it’s making her reconsider a lot of assumptions she made based on his opinions. He told her that his wards would pick up anyone entering the territory, but she didn’t feel him at all.”

Stiles winces. “Yeah, Deaton is, uh, not great,” Stiles says. “I told Peter I’d be happy to do stronger wards around your house, but that could be seen as a sign of aggression unless I’m asked.”

“She honestly might ask you at this point,” Cora says. “I’ve never seen her dig into him like that.”

Stiles sighs happily. “And here I thought today couldn’t get any better,” he says, making Cora laugh. He leans toward her, face going more serious. “Thank you for finding me.”

Cora’s smile is small but genuine. “You’re welcome. You were really nice to me, and Peter is fucking crazy about you,” she says. “I mean, even if you’d been a rando I’d have tried to help but, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, grinning. “I told Peter I’d buy you a Costco-sized package of Sour Patch Kids.”

“Well shit, I’ll be your bodyguard permanently if that’s the pay,” she says. Stiles laughs.

They keep Stiles for a week before letting him leave. Peter drives him home, carefully avoiding all the potholes. It’s adorable. There’s a rush of cold air and the odd feeling of pressure changing when they walk in, the ghosts making it clear they’re happy he’s back. Peter tries to make Stiles go upstairs and sleep, but has had quite enough sleep over the last week and steers them to the living room instead, sinking happily into his favorite chair. Callista is purring loudly, winding around his ankles, her eyes back to a pale green.

Peter sits on the couch closest to the chair, eyes focused on Stiles. “You know I love you, don’t you?” he says out of nowhere.

A slow grin spreads over Stiles’ face, happiness bubbling up inside him. “I didn’t, but I’m thrilled,” he says. “I love you, too.”

Peter looks...well, happier than Stiles knew Peter is capable of looking. “How do you feel about taking a little trip?” Peter asks. “I feel like New Orleans is just calling our names. There’s a beautiful bed and breakfast I’d like to show you.”

Stiles grins, reaching out. Peter takes his hand, pressing a kiss to the top of it. “Sounds great. There’s a voodoo practitioner who you’d just love,” Stiles says. “And really, there’s nothing more romantic than a fun spooky city with a sexy werewolf.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com).


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